


Terms

by ashyoung



Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Homoeroticism, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-01-23 04:16:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 50,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12498564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashyoung/pseuds/ashyoung
Summary: Kallus' heart is with the Rebellion, however his mind has yet to catch up. From his recovery on Yavin IV to his first mission as a Rebel soldier, this is his journey from former Agent turned Fulcrum, to Captain Kallus of the Rebellion.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will take place during the months that separate season three from season four.

The scent of burnt flesh and blood was thick in the air. The nauseating smell grew to a near unbearable stench, a crescendo to the chorus of pain, orchestrated by broken sobs and choked moans that sang throughout the ship’s overcrowded passageway. The symphony of scent descended into a soft piano, temporarily, as the ship’s ventilation system cycled clean oxygen through its vents. Once the cycling stopped, the smell rose again and with it, the Rebels’ anger and fury also increased. Hateful glares and furiously spat insults grew more bold and blatant with every passing minute, for with all their suffering, there was an easy target to blame, one that wore the black bullseye of an imperial officer. A rather infamous one, in fact.

Agent Kallus. No, that was not right. _Former_ Agent Kallus.

He stood leaning lightly against the ship’s bulkhead toward the front of the vessel, arms crossed over his armor and perfectly trimmed brows furrowed.

Much as he was owed their ire, he did not have time for it, arrogant as that may sound. The pain could also be ignored for the moment, as the former Agent had more pressing matters to consider than a few cracked ribs and potential internal bleeding, for with every parsec the _Ghost_ flew closer toward Yavin IV, Kallus’ window of opportunity to plan his escape slipped farther away. Once they reached the planet’s orbit, it would be gone from him completely.

He could not fully formulate his plan without seeing the Rebel’s base first, but he at least needed to be partially prepared for their arrival.

Kallus held no illusions regarding his status aboard the _Ghost._ He was a captive in all but name. The only reason there were no shackles on his wrists was that there were none to be had. Understandable; he doubted cuffs had been at the top of the priority list of Rebellion leadership as they made their evacuation. There was also the injured to tend to, though not Kallus, of course. He had expected as much, but of the nineteen Rebels who had used the Ghost as their means of escape, two had perished. Three were mortally wounded and essentially waiting for death.

Putting them out of their misery now would be Kallus’ suggestion, if he were in any position to give suggestions. Their pained breathing added to the ventilation system's strain, they used up medical supplies that would ultimately prove redundant, and consumed rations better left to those who still stood a chance at survival.

He knew the medical supplies and rations, what little the ship held, would not be making their way to him. The single Rebel medic onboard had not asked if he required attention and Kallus had not requested any. He would not deepen the debt he already owed to the crew of the _Ghost_ by using what little they had on himself.

He would not—he did not…

Kallus’ fist clenched and he held back a wince. During his skirmish with Grand Admiral Thrawn his right thumb had been jammed and he had yet had the time to set it right. Doing so during his escape from Thrawn’s Star Destroyer would have likely cost him his life. But pulling it now, in front of the Rebels, would cost him is pride: currently his most valuable possession.

It was all the former Agent had left.

So much as a slight tremor or shakily taken breath could give away his weakness to hateful, hungry eyes, starving to see the Imperial hurt as they do: _bleed_ as they do, and to see him battered and broken. And while Kallus was indeed battered, he was certainly not broken. Though their suffering did strike deep into the ex-agent’s… heart(?) and he felt guilt, he did not give into it. _Would_ not give into it so long as he was aboard the _Ghost._

There would be time for self-pity later- _after_ he was well and truly free, if such a thing was even possible.

Kallus’ good eye twitched as a scent far worse than death began clogging the halls with its foul odor. His stomach rolled. It would appear as though the corpses had finally begun releasing their bowels.

Well, if that was not a sign to leave, Kallus did not know what was, other than Governor Pryce ordering him to be thrown out an airlock, of course.

Kallus smirked at his own internally made joke, causing the scab over his lip to split open and blood to slowly ooze to its surface. He quickly swiped it away with his tongue.

Uncrossing his arms from his chest, Kallus placed his hands against the gray bulkhead and braced for the pain as he pushed himself from the wall, preparing to find solitude and a datapad. There was much information to impart before he… departed. A partial plan already began to form in the Imperial’s head.

The sound of a door sliding open caused him to freeze, almost guiltily, where he stood.

He turned to see the Jedi Knight, Kanan Jarrus, walking toward the front of the ship with a slow, measured gait. Even without eyes to direct the man’s steps, it was obvious to all in the room whom the masked man was seeking: not his fellow Rebels, but the Imperial who stood among them. Could… Did the Jedi sense Kallus’ desire for escape? Or had the man simply realized the crew’s earlier blunder in not locking him up immediately after boarding the _Ghost?_

The cold grip of fear, the one that had held his heart captive for nearly four months, clenched just a little bit tighter around the organ.

The ex-Agent hoped—blast there was that word again – it was the latter. The latter he could work with, the former would complicate things, like his escape plans once the vessel was grounded. Shackles he could deal with, but a suspicious Jedi had more than once proven too much for the former Agent’s abilities. Perhaps he could waylay the Jedi’s suspicions with honesty, sincerity, and genuinely felt gratitude.

His stomach churned at the thought. _Maker_ , what had become of him?

The Jedi stopped directly in front of Kallus and the Imperial used the opportunity to express himself.

“Kanan, thank you,” he said, pausing to collect his thoughts. “For taking me in.” There. That had been simple. That had been _sincere._ He watched the blind man hesitantly, waiting to see if he... bought it? No, no, _believed him._ There was a difference in the phrasing. He truly was grateful for the rescue, one he had not deser—

A hand clamped down on his bruised shoulder and Kallus once again had to force back a wince.

“Thank you for risking,” the Jedi wavered for a split-second, before continuing, voice stronger than before. “ _Everything_.” The last word was spoken louder than the others and Kallus’ eyes flashed briefly toward the Rebels who were strewn about the passageway. Their hate filled eyes lowered as his own hazel-brown met them. Ah, so that was it.

_Clever Jedi._

Jarrus left and it was all the former Agent could do to keep himself from chuckling. The man had laid the rabble to rest. Speaking out against the Imperial openly after that little speech would be to speak out against their Jedi Knight, something no intelligent Rebel would do if they ever wanted to climb in the ranks of their Rebellion.

With the Jedi gone and the Rebels no longer murmuring threats of his demise under their breath, two of Kallus’ largest obstacles toward his goal had been removed. Now all the ex-Agent needed was a datapad and solitude. From what he had overheard from the Clone in the bridge, only three hyper-space jumps stood before him and Yavin IV, perhaps leaving him with just enough time to prepare for their landing and his own escape, but only if he were to obtain what he needed in a timely manner.

He doubted the Clone, Rex, would be able to procure what Kallus needed. Neither would the AP-5 unit, but the other droid, the C1-10P, had behaved quite cordially toward him upon their meeting in the Lothol factory. If there was any being likely to have a datapad readily available, it was the astromech. Asking was worth an attempt, at least.

He pressed the button next to him, the one that opened the bridge’s doors, and stepped through them as they opened. The metal doors slid softly shut once he was fully inside and the Clone turned his bald head to look at who had joined them only to swiftly turn back toward the blue expanse of hyperspace. The man had reacted quickly, but not before the former Agent had been given the opportunity to see into Rex’s eyes. The previous mirth had been replaced with cold distrust, though not hate, Kallus was surprised to note. A rarity among the _Ghost’s_ crew.

“Oh, Agent Kallus,” a monotone voice called to him, pulling his attention away from the Clone. “It’s an honor to finally meet you.”

 Kallus raised an eyebrow at that, but never the less gave the AP-5 unit his full attention.

“Is that so?” He intoned.

“Oh, yes, I once served aboard a ship under your command. I recall you having _quite_ an attention to detail.”

The former agent stared at the droid for several solid seconds before he finally spoke. Though, not entirely familiar with the AP-5, Kallus had read enough about the unit to know how his response ought to be tailored to gain a favorable result.

“Ah, the AP-5 inventory unit. Yes, I remember you.” He tilted his head in false recognition. “I also seem to recall the ship’s stores never being as organized as they were under _your_ expert direction.”

The unit stared at him with its large, inexpressive optical sensors, then turned down to look at its C1-10P companion. Then back to Kallus. Then once again back to the astromech. Then—

Rex let out a loud sigh and the C1-10P shook its orange helm solemnly, beeping at him.

He gave them both an incredulous look. “What do you mean he’ll be impossible now?”

The orange and white astromech beeped some more, bringing out its miniature arms and crossing them over its wide-round chassis.

That seemed to snap the AP-5 unit out of whatever daze he had been in. The droid turned sharply toward his companion and leveled it with a sound smack across the helm. Kallus startled at the sudden turn to violence.

“What—"

He was interrupted.

“Why of course I deserved the compliment. You’re just jealous no one ever finds _you_ useful.” The AP-5 unit turned his helm up at the shorter mech.

More beeps and whirs came from the C1-10P and Kallus didn’t even bother to stop his eyes from rolling.

“You’re _both_ useful. Much of the Rebels’ early success can be solely credited to C1-10P and the Empire’s custom of underestimating droids.” He shifted, putting more of his weight onto his good leg. “And much of their success afterward can be accredited to you both.” He puffed hot air through his nose, glaring at them both. Glory hounds turned out to be just as insufferable within the Rebellion as they had in the Empire.

Both metallic beings regarded one another in silence, glaring without eyes. It was Rex who finally broke the silence.

By _laughing._

“You heard it from the Imp himself,” the man shook with his laughter. “You’re both the secret to the Rebellion’s success. So how about you two stop bickering every time so much as a button’s pushed, eh?”

Kallus eyed the navigation console. There were quite a few buttons to be found there.

“We _do_ make a pretty good team,” AP-5 conceded. The smaller of the mechs whirred in agreement.

“Now that that’s settled,” Rex once again looked upon the Imperial with distrustful eyes, though the coldness there had faded, Kallus was amazed to note. “What can we do you for, Agent Kallus? I doubt you came in here for the company.” An accusatory glance was given to the droid and astromech before the Clone’s gaze once again settled on Kallus.

“ _Former_ Agent,” he corrected before continuing. “And while I find nothing wrong with your particular company, you are correct in assuming it is not the reason for my visit.” He looked down at the C1-10P unit. “I find myself in need of a datapad. I had hoped,” he stopped, recalling the astromech’s name. “Chopper, would be able to assist me in this matter.”

The astromech did not even hesitate, reaching into its own chassis to pull out a faintly glowing datapad. Kallus reached for it, but before he could grasp it, the Clone stopped him.

“Wait,” there was that distrust. “What do you need it for?”

Kallus stared directly into Rex’s suspicious brown eyes and offered nothing but the truth in return.

“There is a limited time frame for the Imperial access codes and passwords I possess to be useful to your Rebellion. I intend to use the datapad to record them so that they may be given to your command expediently upon reaching Yavin IV. The sooner your leaders are given this information, the sooner you Rebels can put it to good use,” he paused, adding, “Before it’s too late.”

The Clone’s brows raised and the suspicion in his eyes gave way to another emotion- surprise.

“You’re right,” the older man agreed. “Good idea, _former_ Agent Kallus.” The last was said with a smile and now it was Kallus’ turn to be surprised. He hid it poorly.

“Ah, thank you, Rex.”

What had just happened?

The X-1 series, apparently having grown impatient with the former Agent, tossed the datapad at Kallus’ chest. The Imperial almost didn’t catch it, too busy still reeling from the shock of the Clone’s sudden change in demeanor. He was pulled from his confusion when the astromech shocked him, literally.

“Ow!” Kallus growled. “Why, you little…”

He lifted the datapad in his hand high and even as his shoulders protested from the strain, Kallus thought the resulting pain would be worth it if only to enact some small amount of revenge against the mechanoid for shocking him.

“Now, now, none of that Chopper," The AP-5 unit scolded his companion. “Everyone is more well liked than you."

Kallus could see the ensuing argument was going to be a rather lengthy one, most likely violent, and certainly not one he had any intention of staying for.

“With that,” he shot the C1-10P unit a glare. “I’ll take my leave. Unless of course,” he turned his attention back to Rex. “You require something of me?” Maker, he hoped not. While being polite and playing to the Rebels’ overly trusting nature was essential for his plan to work, he really was in no position to be taking requests. Not with his broken leg, cracked ribs, swollen eye, bruised and strained muscles, and if Kallus could get a good look at his pupils in a mirror to confirm- a possible concussion.

“No, think I’m all good here. Well,” Rex jabbed a thumb in the droids’ direction. “Good as I can be with these two around.”

Kallus offered a smile, knowing the comment was intended to be humorous. His lip split open again.

“Then I should be going. There is much to do before we land.” He nodded toward the clone then the two bickering mechs, though he doubted they even noticed him as he left the ship’s bridge, managing to limp only slightly through its open doors.

Before he could close the doors, the Clone called out to him once more, softer than before. “Oh, and Kallus,” Rex looked intentionally down at the Imperial’s right leg then back up to his battered face. “You might want to get that looked at.”

His response was to close the doors while still looking the Clone directly in the eyes, making sure no weakness shown in their hazel-brown depths.

Once the doors were closed, Kallus allowed his own eyelids to droop, closing his eyes for only a moment. That was all he needed, just a moment to gather his strength and steel himself for the oncoming walk he would have to take to find the solitude he needed. Before he began, though, he would need to think through his possible options; he had time to rest, if only for a few short moments.

The cargo bay was out of the question, as was the ship’s recreational room. Both cannons were currently manned, and the former Agent knew better than to go snooping though the _Ghost_ crews’ personal quarters. He was looking for solitude, not to get shot. That left him with…

The refresher.

Repulsive as the prospect was, with so many invalids and unconscious aboard the ship, the refresher was unlikely to be occupied. And even if it was, Kallus was confident his presence alone would be enough to scare off any Rebels within. Well, most Rebels, he thought ruefully. The Imperial doubted young Ezra Bridger would be deterred by the stormy gaze of an ex-Agent he had literally flung though a glass pane with little more than a wave of his hand.

Barring the Crew of the _Ghost_ , Kallus was confident in his ability to procure the much-needed solitude within the refresher. With that in mind he opened his eyes and began to walk, slowly, not bothering to use the walls to support his own almost too heavy body weight. There were still Rebels in the passageway, though fewer than before. But one Rebel was one too many; none could be privy to his current state.

The near unbearable pain, how his ribs screamed with every movement, the broken pieces pressing dangerously close to his lungs, his shoulder and arms pushed to their limits after being stretched up over his head as he was hung from the center of an interrogation cell. The deep bone aching pain of his leg that had never set right, only to be broken again by Thrawn shortly after his capture, how his eyes burned with the effort to remain open, and let’s not forget his almost-certain concussion.

Every step he took, as calm and steady as he appeared, was agony. What saved him from falling was his Imperial Security Bureau training and the fact that he had honestly been through worse, long ago, while orbiting the troubled world of Olderon.

He took in a deep breath- pushing the thought from his mind -and could not stop the wince that flashed across his face as his lungs protested the action.

Close, he was so very close to his destination. Black spots began to dance across the ex-Agent’s vision, but he continued, albeit with less straightforward steps. What few Rebels remained in the corridor eyed him warily, much of their hate having given way to exhaustion. Hate took work, and the tired Rebels were in no condition to expand that much energy on an Imperial. Not that he blamed them, he was hardly worth the effort. Not worth anything, really…

It was with that thought that Kallus pressed the bright red button that would open the refresher door. His steps into the room were hastily taken, and the former Agent almost tripped over his own feet as his broken leg decided it no longer wanted to cooperate.

The door slid shut behind him and, as he predicted, the refresher was empty, though he did notice several splatters of blood and even vomit on its greasy floors. _Filthy,_ he sneered down at it. He had intended to sit as he filed his report, but now it seemed the ex-Agent would have to remain standing. A groan of frustration left him and with it the room’s unfiltered air came rushing into his lungs.

It was then that the smell hit him.

He turned abruptly, facing one of the steel grey urinals and fell to his knees- _retching._

The meager contents of his stomach poured out of him in broken, choked bursts. Acid felt as though it was clawing its way up his throat and his eyes stung, their corners pricking with tears.

It took several minutes before the horrid moment passed, leaving him breathless, with no choice but to breathe in the damn near toxic air that filled the refresher’s small confines. Its scent stuck to his skin and filled his every pore, infecting him with its foul stench. _Maker—_ He swiped his tongue around the confines of his mouth, collecting stray bits of vomit in his saliva. Sucking his cheeks in once to ensure it was all gathered, he spat into the urinal, then reached up with a shaking hand to flush away its grotesque contents.

He felt sick. Worse than the pain in his ribs was now the way his stomach felt, as though acid was eating its way through the walls. Logically, Kallus knew it was not; had what he felt actually been true, he would already be dead. But it _hurt_ , Maker, did it hurt. And now that he was alone, away from prying Rebel eyes, he could allow the pain to show on his bruised face.

His brows rose with the pain and his eyes widened, the arm previously holding the urinal’s handle coming down to wrap around his middle, as though that alone would be enough mend his cracked ribs. For the time being, it would have to be.

While he had wanted to avoid the refresher’s disgusting floor, he no longer had the luxury of choice. His own weakness had seen to that. His current position was appropriate, really. Fallen as he was metaphorically, it had only been a matter of time before his body caught up literally.

He picked up the datapad that had fallen with him and placed it on his lap as he spread his legs out on the floor, grimacing as he felt its wet contents seep through his pants legs and stain them.

Twisting his body around so that his back faced the room’s far end wall, he watched with trepidation as the hand that had been holding the datapad touched the disgusting ground and began to weakly push his body away from the urinal. His bruised frame slid along the ground until he was at the far end of the refresher, where he then pressed his back against a cold metal wall. He let out a sigh of relief, only to choke as the room’s odor once again filled his lungs.

Kallus swallowed down vomit.

What a sight he must make: Imperial uniform torn and stained, his left eye swollen, lip split, with bruises along his jaw and forehead, and then there was the awkward way his right leg was lain out on the floor, its angle nearly unnatural.

Pathetic as he looked, Kallus was grateful for the solitude and sorely tempted to kill any Rebel who dared disturb him. But no, that’s not who he was anymore, and not who he would ever be again, so any Rebel unfortunate to come across him would simply be met with a _very_ displeased look.

With a shuddering breath, and another gag, he picked up the datapad, scooting a little on the floor to better settle himself for a good few solid hours of work. Three and a half, to be precise. Barring any complications, that’s how long it should take the ship to arrive at Yavin IV. Though through his own experiences with the Ghost, complications were to be expected aboard the Rebel ship. Hopefully-- there it was again-- there would be none. Complications for the ship meant complications for his own plans.

And with that thought, he set to work, the room’s stink growing more bearable with every passing minute. Either he grew used to it, or his sense of smell had finally given out due to the overwhelming power of it.

His gloved digits glided gracefully over the datapad’s keypad as he imparted all he knew of the Empire and its secrets into it. He used only one hand, the one that had been holding his ribs together as he slid across the floor, not wanting to get any of the filth on his left hand onto the device that was to house all his information.

The refresher was silent. For thirty-five solid minutes, ex-Agent Kallus was able to work diligently on his self-assigned task. He had even begun to relax, marginally, as the steady routine of workflow settled his frayed nerves. With the datapad resting in his lap, the solitude, and lack of sound, he could almost pretend he wasn’t aboard a Rebel vessel, sitting on the floor in a filthy refresher, that he hadn’t been discovered as a traitor.

That he was still Fulcrum, still useful.

But like all good things in Kallus’ life, the moment ultimately came to an end as some Rebel opened the refresher’s door and dared to interrupt his alone time.

A look filled with displeasure and silent threats spread across the Imperial’s face, with his lips thinning and head tilting downward so he could cast his glare upwards, giving his eyes that shadowed, ominous look Rebels so seemed to fear.

“Is there something I can help you with…” He trailed off, eyes widening, his previously hostile expression stricken from his face.

Of all the Rebels who could have come through that door, it had to be—

“You look like bantha shit.” The Lasat regarded his position on the floor with a raised brow and crossed arms.

Even if Kallus silently acknowledged the other’s words to be true, that didn’t mean he had to be grateful for them. He had enough dignity left within him to look cross at the assessment.

“The same could be said of yourself, Orrelios.” He cocked his head to the side. “Though, I suppose that’s standard for your kind.” Not true, but if a pretense of xenophobia would get the Rebel Captain to _leave..._

“Funny,” Garazeb said. “Looks like you finally got that sense of humor.”

Kallus’ eyes narrowed. Seemed he would have to try a different approach to convince the Lasat to leave.

“Hardly,” he looked at the urinal then back to the Rebel. “… If you need to use the refresher, I can look away," the Imperial generously offered.

“Naw, it’s fine.” The Lasat shook his head, his beard swaying as he did so. Kallus’ hazel eyes followed its movements. “I’m here for you, actually.”

 _That_ snapped him out of his momentary daze.

“Is that so,” he inquired. “Whatever for?”

The Lasat’s posture didn’t change as he responded. “Rex.”

Kallus muttered a curse under his breath. _Meddlesome Clone._

“Yeah,” Garazeb continued. “Seems he thinks you need medical treatment, and by the looks of you.” Large, yellow-green eyes roved over his battered body. “Seems he was right.”

The ex-Agent stiffened.

“He was wrong.”

Orrelios did not look convinced.

“Yeah?” The Lasat took a step closer and Kallus began to sweat. “Then why don’t you get up from there, eh? Hera could use your help in the cargo bay taking care of the injured.” Another step. “Since you’re clearly not.”

It took a moment for Kallus to formulate a response.

“Much as I would like to assist Captain Syndulla,” he gestured at the datapad in his lap. “I’m currently in the middle of something- recording access codes and passwords for your Rebellion.”

Garazeb still did not appear convinced. “Here, on the floor of the refresher?” Nothing was said about said floor’s disgusting state. “That can wait till we’ve landed on Yavin four and you’ve gotten yourself properly looked at.”

The taller man nodded his head toward the door. “Come on, up.” Then his eyes narrowed. “If you can.”

Kallus tried not to let his voice shake as he said, “That’s really not necessary, Garazeb. My work _is_ important, and if these codes are not given to your command immediately upon our landing, their window of opportunity to use them may very well close.”

It was the truth. The truth had won the Clone over, how much more difficult could a Lasat be to convince?

“Uh-huh, there a reason you’re recording these codes on the floor of the refresher, surrounded by blood, spill, and stars know what else?” Orrelios took yet another step closer. “Could write ‘em just as well in the cargo bay.”

Kallus had an answer to this.

“I do my best work alone.”

Kallus lowered his gaze to the datapad in his lap, no longer able to meet the genuine concern he found in the Lasat’s eyes.

“… I wish to be alone, Garazeb.”

He heard a sigh.

“Can’t let you, Kallus. You should know that, but…” There was a pause and the ex-Agent wondered if the Lasat was going to let him be. “You can’t get up on your own. I’m not blind.” There was a Jedi Knight jab to be made there, but Kallus held himself in check.

A large, furred hand was held out to him, obvious in its non-humanness.

Kallus’ brows furrowed, then he held out a hand of his own, the one that had been used on the floor, the black glove coated in blood and all manner of other fluids. It was his last defense.

Garazeb took it without hesitation. The glove squished in his palm; something yellow dripped from where their hands were connected, and Kallus thought, with some amount of wonder, that it was not the first time they had been in this position.

The Imperial, unable to walk on his own and needing the Lasat’s help.

He was pulled to his feet by the other only to nearly fall back to the floor, had a strong arm not caught him around his shoulders. Kallus’ vision swam. He had stood too fast. His legs, good and bad, were trembling under his own weight and the ex-agent groaned in pain, his breath coming out in harsh pants. Garazeb had known, been prepared for the Imperial’s inability to stand on his own.

He had never for a moment fooled the man.

“Yeah, you’re fine all right,” the Lasat sounded angry. “Come on, let’s get you to the cargo bay.”

Kallus jerked against the arm around him.

“No,” he protested fiercely. “I have to finish my work. Garazeb." He hated how he sounded. Pitiful, pleading. “ _Please_ , I need to finish my work.”

He finally met those owlish eyes again, hoping something in his own conveyed just how much he needed to continue his work. He could not allow himself to be… To sit and be taken care of… There were Rebels far worse off than him. Some had lost limbs, some soon would lose their lives. Some already had. The last thing they needed was to see an Imperial among them, using their medical supplies, their rations, when they could go to ones much more deserving than he.

Then there were his plans for escape.

“… Alright.” Kallus could not help but smile at the other’s agreement. His lip started bleeding again. “But you’ll continue in my quarters. While we’re on this ship, I don’t want you going anywhere I can’t see you.”

His smile slipped, eyes hardened.

“Are those your terms?”

The Rebel smiled and had the audacity to look amused. “Yeah, those are my terms. Do you accept?”

Kallus sighed, defeated. It was what, the third, fourth time? All in under twenty-four hours.

“Yes.”

He let out a yelp as he was lifted from his feet, held in the Lasat’s arms in a bridal-carry.

“Let’s get going then.” The refresher door opened and Garazeb stepped through it. “Wouldn’t want to keep you from your precious work, would we?”

Kallus leveled the Lasat with an unimpressed glare.

“No, we would not.”

Garazeb chuckled.

Kallus fumed.

The walk to Orrelios’ quarters was a mercifully short one. Only two Rebels had been unfortunate enough to spot them on their journey, and the Imperial’s expression had threatened death should they ever speak about what they saw.

The ex-Agent was shifted and he felt rather than saw the Lasat reaching for the door panel to his room. Through slanted eyes, he watched as the other’s purple face lit up in delight over his success of opening the door while still holding the human.

Kallus was heavier than he looked, after all.

Garazeb stepped through the door and it closed behind him. Then, before the Imperial had time to take stock of his surroundings, he was sat, unexpectedly gently, on the bottom rack. The smell emanating from its soft mattress and thin sheets was an obvious tell of whom it belonged to.

“Don’t go anywhere,” the Lasat instructed him.

Kallus raised a finely trimmed brow at that.

“I think we both know that won’t be happening.”

The door opened and Orrelios took a backwards step toward it. “Still needed saying, and…” Garazeb rubbed the back of his neck. “You need anything? Besides medical supplies of course.”

The Imperial was tempted to retort that he did not need the medical supplies, but thought better of it, instead responding with a more neutral, honest answer.

“Some water would be nice.”

Not that he deserved it, but if the fool Lasat was already willing to waste something so valuable as medical supplies on him…

“Alright then," a smile was directed toward him, one full of warmth and such genuine kindness that it shot straight through his already beating-too-fast heart. The expression suited the Lasat, brought out his eyes, and looked much better on him than the grimace or growl Kallus was typically faced with.

He quickly banished those thoughts away.

The Rebel left and the Imperial leaned back, nearly lying down on Garazeb’s rack.

It was soft, much softer than his own had been back on the _Lawbringer_. To lay back on it and rest, if only for a few minutes, was nearly too much temptation for the ex-Agent to resist. Almost. If recording his codes and passwords had not truly been as important as he claimed, he would have given in. Because even better than being soft, the rack had another advantage over his own that tested the former ISB’s very strength of will; it was warm.

Kallus hated the cold. He had not been warm since, strangely enough, the Bahryn incident, since before the Lasat had tossed him that damnable meteorite.

The former Agent leaned forward, hardening his resolve. Enough of that. Back to plotting. For his plan to be successful, it was imperative that he finish recording the information _before_ landing on Yavin IV.

He set about typing, only to once again be interrupted by the door opening. Revealing a pleased looking Lasat holding a bundle of medical supplies in his arms and a container of water.

“… Please, tell me all those are not meant for me.”

The man did not even have the decency to look ashamed with his answer.

“Yup, broken leg and whatever else you’ve got going on there is gonna need more than just a few bandages.”

Kallus frowned. “My leg is all that requires attention.”

“Uh-huh, sure,” Orrelios ignored his protests. “Here, your water.”

The former Agent reached out to take it with his clean hand, not wanting to contaminate the water any more than it likely already was. Before he could pull the water to himself, Garazeb unceremoniously dumped the medical supplies onto the rack, then reached out to open the container _for_ the Kallus.

“… Thank you.” The Imperial clenched his filthy hand around a sheet. He felt like an invalid.

“Now,” the Lasat said as he sat next to him. “Let’s get you fixed up.”

The _fixing up_ started simple, with antibacterial swabs along the bruises and cuts on his face. Then Garazeb asked Kallus to remove his gloves, which the Imperial refused to do. Orrelios did not argue. The Lasat instead pulled out a long bacta-strip.

“Rex got a good look at your eyes in the bridge, thinks you might have a concussion,” he said and began wrapping the strip around Kallus’ head, just above his eyebrows. “Gotta say I agree with him.”

“I would also have to agree,” the ex-Agent said. “There were more than a few blows directed toward my head during my… interrogation.”

Garazeb looked like he wanted to ask something. Just what kind of interrogation did Kallus receive from his formal Imperial allies? The Lasat no doubt had a guess.

“Not,” Kallus took a deep breath. “Not now, please.”

The larger man nodded slowly, wide eyes aglow understanding.

“Later then.”

Never, more like it, but he was not about to tell Orrelios that. Lasat never knew when to give up.

Since he could use the concussion as an excuse, Kallus used their proximity to study the non-human. It proved a much easier task when they were not trying to kill each other. The darker shaded stripes that started from the edges of Garazeb’s face and pointed inward. How strange his nose was, how lines formed around it down to his mouth, framing it in not an all unattractive way. Darker whiskers made up the man’s sideburns and long, thin beard. The beard could use work; there were bits sticking out and Kallus would have liked to take a comb to it. He despised unkempt facial hair. Then there were the Lasat’s eyes, those wide, far too expressive yellow-green eyes. They looked… They looked…

“You’re exhausted.” It was a statement of fact.

“What? Me? No, I’m good. Fine, really.” The Lasat gave him a clearly forced smile, probably meant to reassure him. It did not work.

The man had no doubt been part of the battle at Chopper base, running around and preparing for hours, fighting, and finally doing what he could to ensure survivors of Grand Admiral Thrawn’s assault escaped. The Lasat did not look outwardly injured, but internally? Well, Kallus knew how much pain could be hidden beneath the surface.

“Uh-huh,” he mimicked Garazeb’s earlier tone. “And _I_ don’t have a broken leg.”

“Huh, imagine that,” Garazeb retorted. “Guess we won’t be needing this then.”

The man tossed the bandages that were meant to hold his broken leg together to the side. Kallus tried not to mourn their loss, as they would have been a temporary fix and were better suited to a Rebel who deserved them.

“I suppose not," was his short reply, one Garazeb apparently did not like.

“I’m taking you to the medbay once we’re planet-side.” Orrelios gave him stern look. “You can’t say no. You’re getting a proper look over.”

He _tsked._ “We shall see.”

The Lasat grumbled something under his breath that Kallus could not quite make out. The words had sounded alien. Speaking in his native tongue then?

He could see Orrelios’ hands shake as he moved the medical supplies to a drawer beneath the rack. The man’s eyes roved almost wildly around the room, a poor method often used to stave off exhaustion. Garazeb was close to collapsing, the stress and physical strain of the day’s events finally catching up to the powerful warrior.

Trying again, the ex-Agent allowed some of the concern he felt for the Lasat to slip through his voice. Only some of it.

 “You should sleep, Garazeb, while you can.”

The other regarded him with suspicion. “There a reason you want me knocked out so badly, Kallus?”

 The Imperial let out a huff of annoyance. Of all the times to be stubborn.

“Once we reach Yavin IV you will likely not receive the opportunity. Not for a long while. You should… I’m simply…” Kallus struggled with the words. “You should sleep,” he finished.

There were well over two hours left in their journey to the Rebel base. He would use the time to complete his personal mission and return some of the kindness the Lasat had shown him, even if that meant beating down at the larger man’s resolve until he _complied._

Orrelios growled something that sounded suspiciously like a _no._

“Resorting to petulant pouting, are we?” Hazel eyes narrowed. “Very well.” He pulled the datapad to his chest, leaning toward the bulky Rebel. He decided it was time to use the Lasat’s own kind nature against him.

“Then I will not be visiting the medbay once we reach Yavin IV.”

Orrelios’ eyes widened, recognizing the Imperial’s dirty tactic for what it was. The larger man growled, baring his sharp canines. Kallus could not care less; he had faced worse from the Lasat than an angry look, and if it got him what he wanted, he would use every underhanded method available to him.

Garazeb did not respond, but the growling subsided to a mere low grumble as he threw his weight onto the mattress in an exasperated heap, causing Kallus to bounce where he sat. He hissed as his leg was jostled.

“… Sorry.”

Kallus was relentless. “Sorry enough to rest?”

The Lasat’s lips twisted. “You never give up, do ya?”

He smirked. “I suppose that’s something we have in common.”

Garazeb’s eyes turned upward to the top rack.

“Yeah, suppose it is.”

Kallus’ mouth went dry as he realized exactly what he had said. Ignoring his blunder, he took a sip from his water before continuing.

“How about this,” he said as he scooted farther down the rack. “Once we reach the Rebel base, after I’ve delivered my information, I’ll head straight for the medbay?” It was a question, not a promise.

“If I do that, will you rest here, while you can?” It was still a question; Kallus had not promised anything, whether the Lasat agreed or not. When there was no immediate answer, he added, “If you want me to take care of myself, you must first take care of yourself. You know...” The corner of his split lip quirked. “Set a good example for the Imperial.”

The Lasat snorted, rolling on the mattress to face him, expression unreadable.

“Those your terms?” Garazeb asked.

Kallus’ smile was soft at the call-back.

“They are.”

There was shuffling behind him and the other’s strange feet lifted off the floor and disappeared behind him, then he felt something press against his back. Looking behind him, he could see it was the Lasat’s own. The man was actually going to rest. With Kallus awake in the room. True, it had been done before, but that had been under different circumstances, one where they had needed each other to survive. Or so Kallus liked to tell himself.

Here, now? Garazeb Orrelios did not need him. There was no reason behind the alien’s kindness, his trust. It was, for one, becoming a habit with the Lasat, and two, something the former ISB could not comprehend.

He leaned back against the sturdy frame behind him and was silently pleased when he was not immediately shaken off. The rack had been warm before, but Kallus had remained cold. With Garazeb at his back, however, the Imperial could feel his temperature rising with the larger male’s body heat seeping into his own. It was… nice.

Relaxing ever so slightly, Kallus set himself back to task.

Ten, then twenty, then thirty minutes passed by, and then he heard it.

A snore.

He twisted his head around to look at the sleeping man behind him, for once allowing his amusement to show on his face. So, Garazeb Orrelios, Captain of the Honor Guard, was a snorer? With the Lasat’s strange nose, Kallus would have never guessed. He supposed it made sense, in a way, what with the rest of the man being so burly; snoring fit the image well. The sounds coming from Orrelios were not overly loud though, nothing the former Agent could not work through. They were even soothing, in a way, like white noise.

Kallus once again refocused himself to his work, only to stop typing mid-sentence as a realization struck him. Garazeb Orrelios, one of the last Lasat alive, former Captain of the Honor Guard, was sleeping peacefully behind him. _Him_. Agent Kallus. The man credited with the Lasan massacre. He would be leaving soon, never to see each other again once his plans to escape took effect. He was facing his one and only opportunity to do something he had been embarrassingly curious about ever since he had realized, in another life, that he and Garazeb could have been… friends.

Former ISB Agent Kallus reached behind him and placed a gloved hand on the Lasat’s striped arm. Then slowly, gently, cautiously, he began to pet it, brushing long strokes from elbow to shoulder. He could not feel the man’s short fur, not through his glove, but from the way it moved beneath him, he could imagine its softness. Strange, Kallus had always assumed it would be rough, coarse, like the man himself. Temptation came beckoning to him again as the Imperial played with the idea of removing his glove to confirm the hair’s softness. But no, it was too much of a risk. He was already taking a large enough one just by touching Garazeb as he was.

The snoring stopped and Kallus froze. His hand remained where it was on the Lasat’s arm, but he dared not continue to move it. Not until—

The snoring continued.

Kallus let out a breath of relief he had not realized he had been holding.

His ministrations continued, the action oddly soothing, much like the Lasat’s quiet snores.

He continued like that, typing away quietly with one hand and petting Garazeb’s arm with the other, for the remainder of the trip. Even as his arm grew tired, no less sore and bruised than before, he continued. He felt at peace, with Orrelios at his back and necessary work at his front. Kallus held no illusions about his life after escape. The peace he currently felt was not likely to happen again, not any time soon. Possibly never. The same could be said for the warmth that spread throughout his battered body.

And while many would call him a bastard for using the man behind him for his own personal gain, they would be right. He was an Imperial after all. Not much else could- _should_ be expected of him.

Little over two hours had passed with Kallus only stopping his ministrations once his arm could no longer physically hold itself up. He had finished his intelligence report roughly fifteen minutes ago. All that was left was review. There was a gentle knock on the door and the Imperial looked up at it, expecting it to open despite the lack of answer. Instead, Kanan Jarrus spoke through it, whispering as though he knew the Lasat within was sleeping. Jedi that he was, the idea was entirely possible.

“Thirty minutes till landing. Hera wants you in the bridge to discuss our plans once we get there.” A pause. “ _Both_ of you.”

Well, Garazeb did not need to know the last bit. He did, however, need to be woken. Kallus coughed loudly once and when there was no response, he gripped a large uncovered shoulder and shook. The resting man’s response was less than promising.

“Wake me, you die.”

He could not help but chuckle at that.

“And waste all your hard work?”

That seemed to pull the Lasat from his sleepy stupor.

“Nn, Kal?” Garazeb mumbled.

“Kallus,” he corrected.

Orrelios huffed, finally blinking his far-too large eyes open. Kallus shifted toward the end of the bed and gave the larger man room to sit up.

“We landing?” Garazeb asked.

The former Agent nodded. “Twenty-five minutes.”

“Hurr.”

Kallus did not have a name for what that sound was.

“You done with your secret codes?”

He nodded again.

“Good,” another huff from the Lasat. “Maybe now you’ll get some damn rest.”

“Not likely,” he responded. “I still need to deliver them to your Rebel leaders.”

Garazeb held open a palm. “Hand ‘em here and I’ll do it for you.”

“No,” he refused. “This is something I have to do.”

The hard set of his hazel eyes stopped the Lasat from protesting.

“Alright.” There was an alien hand on his shoulder, then a squeeze. “I get it.”

Somehow, Kallus knew the other was not lying. Somehow, the Lasat understood him. He _got it_. A twinge of remorse for using Orrelios to accomplish his own ends traveled through the former Agent.

Garazeb stood from the rack, stretching backwards and groaning as his back popped. Kallus winced at the sound. Then, once again, a hand was held out to him. No words offered, just a hand.

Kallus took it, with the hand that had been previously holding the datapad, the clean hand. He wondered what that alien’s hand would feel like without the glove.

Ah, well, some mysteries were never meant to be solved. Not by him, at least.

“Gonna head to the bridge, see what Hera’s got planned for our arrival.”

He was lifted onto his feet, slowly.

“You were ordered there by the Jedi, anyway,” he said as his hand was released. “And where will you be depositing me in the meantime?”

Garazeb’s face contorted in confusion.

“You’re coming with me. That was the deal, remember?”

His eyes widened. “Ah, yes, the deal.”

He had honestly forgotten. Poor form, _former_ ISB or not.

“Very well then,” he said as he positioned his stance to best hide his limping. “Lead the way.”

“Yeah,” Garazeb gave him a look. “That’s not gonna work.”

Kallus sniffed. “If you pick me up again…” His voice was low in warning.

“Relax, princess.” The Lasat reached for his bo-rifle. “You aren’t exactly light. Here,” the weapon was handed to him in its fully extended form, though it was not activated. “Use this.”

He took the weapon.

“… Am I to assume you want me to use it as a crutch?”

Garazeb rubbed the back of his neck. It seemed to be a behavioral tick for the man.

“That was the idea, yeah.”

Kallus looked from the weapon to its owner.

“You trust too easily,” he spoke softly. “Thank you.”

“…Just don’t get used to holding it,” Garazeb said.

“Well, I am currently looking for a replacement…,” he taunted.

Garazeb flicked the stray strand of hair that had fallen into the ex-Agent’s face, much to the Imperial’s dismay.

“Like I said, _don’t_ get used to it.”

Kallus smirked. Garazeb rolled his owlish eyes.

“Come on, you.” With that, their conversation ended.

Kallus’ thinned his lips in preparation for the walk to the bridge. He would no longer be alone with Orrelios. He could no longer allow his pain to show, for while he trusted the Lasat not to take advantage of his weakened state, as he had not on the frozen moon, the rest could not be said for the other members of the _Ghost’s_ crew. Especially not a certain young Padawan.

Garazeb left first, though he walked slowly, awkwardly so with how long his legs were and short gait the man had to adopt for Kallus to keep pace with him had to be trying the warrior’s patience. But Orrelios said nothing, and neither did Kallus. It was a kind gesture, what the ex-ISB could only assume to be a friendly one. He wanted to savor it while he could.

The passageway was empty, finally. The Rebels were no doubt waiting in the cargo bay to be released from the confines of the ship, away from the death that cloyed at the Ghost’s very walls. An apt name, Kallus mused, as now there was a possibility the ship could be haunted, if one were to believe in such things.

Garazeb reached ahead of him, opening the door to the bridge. Kallus entered first and immediately noticed the pair of ancient, barbaric pre-spaceflight crutches being held out to him by Sabine Wren.

“You must be joking,” he said, his voice full of distaste.

“Nope,” the Mandalorian beamed at him. “These are for you to use until we get you something better.”

Kallus glowered but nevertheless took the crutches and handing the bo-rifle back to Garazeb with no small amount of reluctance. Ezra Bridger looked at the bo-rifle then to the Lasat, face falling as he realized just who had been holding a weapon. None of the other crew appeared to have been concerned by it, though, and Captain Syndulla began her debriefing.

“There’s going to be a lot of work to do once we’re planet side.” She looked at her battle hardened, weary crew with vibrant green eyes set in determination. “Agent Kallus can give his datapad to Sabine, who will—”Kallus cut the Captain off.

“ _Former_ Agent--” He paused to make sure he got his point across before continuing. “No, I would like to deliver the datapad myself.” The ex-Agent would like to, but could not. So technically, not a lie.

“… Alright.” Captain Syndulla did not sound as though she had wanted to relent, yet she had, With very little prodding.

Interesting.

“While Agent Kallus—”

“ _Former_ Agent,” he interrupted.

She looked annoyed. “While _former_ Agent Kallus is turning in his report, Rex and I will be briefing Senator Mon Mothma on what happened at Chopper base. Chopper and AP-5,” the Twi’lek looked at the mechanisms directly. “I want you two running diagnostics on the ship. Check for everything.”

Once again, he interrupted.

“Include tracking devices in your diagnostics check.” They all looked at him and he shrugged. Well, best as he could on his crutches. “It’s best to make the practice a habit, with the number of times the Empire had been able to track your location from one being injected onto your ship.”

Kallus could count three occasions where he had used the tactic himself to track the Rebel cell.

His suggestion, mild as it had been delivered, did not go over as well as he had hoped.

“Are you telling me, _me_ , how to do my job?” The monotone droid somehow managed to sound offended at the very notion. The C1-10P unit beeped his thoughts on the suggestion as well. It was more colorfully worded than his companion’s.

He watched as Syndulla placed a slim hand on her temple and focused on a vein as it pulsed. The woman likely had a migraine, not that he could blame her with the troublesome lot she worked with.

“Not. Now. You two.” Her tone brokered no room for argument.

“Kanan, Ezra, I want you to coordinate the survivors. Make sure they’re getting treated. It’s going to be hectic when we land and I don’t want anyone going unnoticed.”

The two force-wielders said something that was essentially an informal _yes ma’am._ Why they could not simply reply the correct way to a superior officer, he did not know. Perhaps it was a Jedi trait.

“And Zeb...” She bit her lip, as though expecting her next words not to go over well with the Lasat. “I want you to stick with Kallus. He can’t be left unsupervised once we land. It’s dangerous.”

Garazeb opened his mouth, but it was Kallus who protested first.

“Is that _really_ necessary?” He tried not to sound hostile, but it was difficult. “It’s not as though, I could cause much harm in my current state. Even if I wanted to,” he hastily added. “Which I don’t.”

Captain Syndulla shook her head. “It’s for your protection as much as ours, Ag- Kallus,” she quickly corrected. “What do you think the personnel there will do if they see an infamous Imperial Security Bureau agent walking around freely on base?”

His eyes narrowed. Kallus had never intended to stick around long enough to find out.

“Attack, most likely,” he responded in a clipped tone.

“Exactly.”

She then moved on to other topics and the former Agent was left to stew in his own resentment. It did not help that the Lasat was now looking at him with what could only be described as curiosity, those absurdly large eyes of his only making the expression of interest worse. But whatever Garazeb was thinking, he kept it to himself, wide eyes never once leaving Kallus’ silently fuming form.

That was that, then. Garazeb was his official chaperone. Hopefully- damnation, _again_ -the Rebels’ good luck would rub off on him during his short time among them and an opportunity to lose his guard would present itself.

The meeting was dismissed without much more being discussed, and Kallus hobbled his way to the cargo bay, frowning as he realized there was a ladder in the way of his path to freedom. Orrelios was not far behind him, and soon the Lasat was directly at his back. The man gripped the railing on either side of the Imperial’s body and just as he was about to ask what exactly Garazeb thought he was doing, he felt something grip the back of his uniform, lifting him from the ground. His good leg swung in the air.

“Hey, what are you—Put me down!”

Safely on the ground, he turned back to glare at the inconsiderate man as he climbed down the ladder.

“What,” Garazeb smirked. “Said you didn’t want to be carried.”

The man had lifted the ex-Agent with his feet. _His feet_. Kallus let out a groan of frustration and swung his way toward the cargo bay door.

The Lasat was right behind him, then beside him, and Kallus had to try one more time to convince the other to leave him be.

“You really don’t have to follow me around. I’m sure as a Captain you have better things to do.”

“Nope,” Orrelios side-eyed him. “There a reason you don’t want me following you around?”

Kallus sighed; he hated the unsaid implications in that sentence.

“It’s not what you think,” he said despite the look of suspicion he received. “Really,” he continued. “Much as I appreciate your help, I do not wish to…” He paused, pondering how to phrase his next words. “Get used to it-- It won’t always be there.” _You will not always be there_. “To support me. I cannot allow myself to become compliant.”

“That’s not true, you know.” The man looked perplexed. “You’re a Rebel now. We take care of our own.”

Kallus snorted. “You and your crew take care of each other.”

 _Which I am not a part of,_ was left unsaid.

The ramp lowered, cutting off whatever argument Orrelios was about to give him. Kallus was glad for it. He really did not want his last moments with the Lasat to devolve into an argument where he appeared ungrateful for all the help he had been given.

He preferred Garazeb’s smile over his scowl, strange as that admission still was.

The Imperial walked down the metal ramp, doing his best not to appear unstable on the archaic crutches. Garazeb was quick to follow him, looking upon the ex-Agent as though he might fall at any moment. Not an entirely impossible outcome, given how unfamiliar he was with the use of crutches.

“Need a hand there?” The larger man offered.

“No, no, I have to get used to them.” _To being alone once more._

Once safely off the ramp, Kallus took a deep breath and did what ISB Agents did best.

_Observed._

The hangar’s walls were lined with crates, many stacked precariously high. They would topple if stuck at a precise point. A line of refugees had already formed, leading out of the hangar bay and out around its left corner entrance. Gauging from the haggard appearance of the Rebels who stood in its line, they were likely headed toward a medical center. Six ships that had not been part of the evacuation on Atollon were lined up in columns of three and two of those ships were stationed outside of the hangar. The farthest one away, also the smallest of the craft, was in the process of being loaded. Only one Rebel was overseeing the operation. Only two appeared to be—

A furry hand waved in front of his face, snapping him from his thoughts.

“Kallus, you there? Knew I should have given you something more for the concussion…”

He shook his head, turning his attention to his guard.

“No, I’m quite all right. I was just... surprised. Thrawn had suggested a larger Rebellion to be in the works, but I doubt even he suspected it to be of such a large scale.”

The hangar itself was massive.

“Heh, yeah, was surprised myself when I first found out.”

He tilted his head in question.

“When you found out?”

Garazeb’s right ear twitched. Kallus had no idea what that meant.

“Mm-hm, you know when we first met we were just a bunch of doo-gooders sticking it to the Empire. None of this big picture stuff we’ve got going on now.”

Kallus’ jaw dropped.

Orrelios had the nerve to laugh.

“ _You_ \--” the Imperial reigned in his temper. “Did I somehow play a part in driving you toward the bigger picture?” If not for the crutches and datapad, he would have used air quotes.

The Lasat eyed him thoughtfully, taking his time to consider the question.

“Yes, in a way, I suppose. Why does it matter?”

The answer was so obvious Kallus was flabbergasted Garazeb had not figured it out for himself. Perhaps he had overestimated the Lasat's intelligence.

“Because then there is at least _one_ good thing I’ve done in the name of the Empire.”

The Lasat opened his mouth then closed it, and only after a full twenty seconds of thinking did Orrelios appear to finally settle on what he was going to say in response to Kallus pointing out the obvious. He opened his mouth once more, giving the ex-Agent an eyeful of his fanged teeth.

A loud crash interrupted whatever Garazeb’s next words were to be.

Perhaps the Rebels’ good luck _had_ rubbed off on him.

“What was that?” He asked.

Furred brows furrowed.

“They dropped some cargo, some had to be moved manually. Overheard the workers talking about how heavy they were and...” There was that neck rubbing again. “Karabast.” Ah, so that was what the ear-twitch had been for.

Even if the Lasat did not say it, Kallus knew what he was thinking. The ex-Agent’s opportunity had come.

“You go, I’ll remain here.”

It was the first full lie he had told since boarding the Rebel ship. He saw the hesitancy in Garazeb’s eyes and dismissed it, urging him on.

“They need your help.”

The Lasat sat his bo-rifle down, leaning it against a stack of crates to his left. Kallus forced himself not to look at it.

“I’ll be right back.” It sounded like a warning more than a reassurance.

He nodded in acknowledgment, watching as the Lasat turned to leave. The Imperial’s grip on the datapad tightened, and once Garazeb had exited his field of vision, he turned to look at the now readily available bo-rifle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End chapter one.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to give thanks to everyone who commented on the chapter, they were all really encouraging. One person in particular, KaitanISB021, for pointing out a glaring continuity error.

Sneaking aboard the Rebel craft had proven alarmingly easy.

He had slipped by the dock worker in charge of loading the small vessel unseen, using the clusters of chaos caused by the refugee Rebels to provide cover. Kallus had been sorely tempted to march back down the ramp, crutches and all, and reprimand the woman for her poor attention to detail. The Rebel worker allowed her eyes to stray from her task too easily, ignoring the drones loading the cargo in favor of watching her injured colleagues limp about the hangar bay.

Her sympathy, while understandable, was a weakness.

Once aboard the ship, the Imperial hid himself away within its lower deck, popping open a hatch and sliding down a ladder into its confined space. No small feat considering his handicap. Before holing himself away, he had caught a glimpse of the ship’s occupants: a droid and a single human pilot. The presence of a droid—currently located in the ship’s hull-- was promising; mechanoid could be reprogrammed into an asset. The pilot, however, would have to go. Preferably _before_ the ship took off.

Low as the ceiling was, Kallus found himself unable to stand at his meager full height while using crutches. The cramped spacing would be a hindrance for any plan he formulated. All of the cargo would need to be loaded before he made any attempt on the ship, to ensure no others were to board as well.

The former Agent glanced around him, taking note of the pipes and wires lined along the walls, their shape barely visible in the near pitch-black space. A single green light flashed, the room’s only source of illumination, on what looked to be a gray breaker box.

A smirk stretched across the Imperial’s bruised face.

Moving as quickly and quietly as the crutches allowed, he made his way over to the light. He opened the breaker box it was attached to, eyes brightening as it proved to be a proverbial door of opportunity. The ship’s lighting, ventilation system, communications—They could all be manipulated by the flick of a switch. Kallus would have been appalled by the ship’s glaring design flaws were they not beneficial to him.

The droid, an R2 series, returned from the back of the ship, beeping in binary that they were free to depart. Excellent. Kallus’ back had begun to ache, more than usual, from his hunched position underneath the deck. Before the droid reached the bridge, Kallus flipped a switch, shutting off the ship’s communications. He quickly hobbled to the space behind where the hatch opened. The droid would be sent to investigate the error and Kallus would be ready for it with a crutch raised in preparation for a strike. Once the R2 droid entered the space, the Imperial would have a limited period of time before its sensors noticed him. It needed to offline before any alarm could be sent to the pilot.

Grunts and the general noises of human distress were heard, muffled, through the bridge’s doors. The droid’s wheels above the deck rolled to a stop and curses in binary were shouted loudly back in response to the pilot’s aggravation. The mechanoid’s wheels began rolling again and Kallus’ tensed in anticipation.

Light shined down directly in front of Kallus. The hatch opened. Whirrs were heard before a loud _thunk_ of the droid dropping down into the confined space. Kallus did not hesitate, swinging his raised crutch down and striking the droid on its helm. It went offline instantly, falling forward onto the ground with its lights flickering off.

The ex-Agent moved swiftly to its side, barely able to squeeze himself between the wall and the droid’s offline frame. His shoulders pushed uncomfortably close together as he leaned over the droid. He felt along the R2’s seams with deft fingers, wincing as his jammed thumb bounced off its hard metal exterior. Kallus searched for a panel that would give him access the droid’s finer workings. Most R2 units had them, though he could not be sure of any modifications the Rebels might have made.

The droid had obviously not originally belonged to the Rebels. It was a repurposed Imperial model, though its crude, already chipped paint job did very little in hiding the muted insignia that belied its previous owners. His eyes flicked from a rusted rivet to a stripped screw. The Rebels had not exactly taken care of their pilfered astromech... No matter; the R2 unit's outer appearance was of little importance. What lay inside the droid was all the Imperial was interested in.

Gloved hands continued to rove over the droid's cylindrical frame and he grinned in satisfaction when he found the correct panel.

Reprogramming the droid was a simple task, one the Imperial had extensive experience in, having worked with the metallic beings since he was a young lad. His fingers moved quickly through the robot’s interior wiring, moving plugs and removing data chips. Simple temporary memory fragmentation would be too much of a risk with the droid, as there was a chance the pilot could remotely force a hard reboot. No, the droid would need to have no memory remaining at all. It could operate on short-term order recognition until he was able to procure a new memory chip for the R2 unit.

Kallus closed the panel, placing what he had removed from the droid in a pocket just as it slowly began blinking back online. It pushed itself upright and beeped questioningly at the Imperial. It did not know where it was, what its function was, or who Kallus was, all of which was information the droid did not need to operate. It would be unable to remember anything told to it by the ex-Agent past two hours anyway. No need to waste his already limited time on a droid’s identity crisis.

“Droid, you will come with me to the bridge,” he commanded. Best to keep his orders simple until the droid recovered more of its cognitive functions.

He waited for a confirmation, but rather than an agreement, the mech had the nerve to ask the former Agent _why._

Kallus let out a noise of frustration. “Because I ordered you to.”

The R2 unit whistled something inherently insulting and questioned Kallus' own abilities to exit the confined space unaided. He grit his teeth in frustration, but refrained from shouting his next order, no matter how desperately he wanted to.

" _Go,_ " he growled.

Optical lenses stared blankly at the Imperial and the R2 unit hesitated, though Kallus could not for the life of him figure out why. There should be nothing left of its Rebel programming with its memory removed, base Imperial protocol called for absolute obedience to any wearing the Empire's military uniform; the troublesome droid _ought_ to follow Kallus' commands without question, yet here he was, staring down an eyeless machine and _willing_ it to obey him and failing.

Typical of his luck, really. The former Agent should have expected as much. He sighed, pushing the hair that had fallen onto his brow back into place. The ship would be taking off soon and Kallus did not know how much longer the chemicals in his system would sustain. He did not have _time_ to argue with a droid, much less the energy for it.

"Go," he intoned softly. "I will be up shortly."

Finally, the R2 unit agreed, nodding its frame forward once before igniting its rocket booster and flying out of the hatch. It waited for him at the opening, letting out what could only be described as a beep of apprehension.

Kallus grit his teeth and glared up at it. Even without its memory, the droid had the attitude of a Rebel. He almost felt remorse for taking away its memory and, soon, from its companions.

Almost-- it was just a droid, after all.

Climbing up the ladder to the hatch’s opening would be impossible with the crutches. Useful as they had proven, he would have to leave them behind. He could always have the droid go back and fetch them later. Propping the crutches against a wall, he gripped the railed of the ladder. He pulled himself up enough to place his good leg on a rung, then slid his hands higher up, then once again pulled himself up. His tender muscles screamed in protest as he lifted his own weight, pulling his good leg up to the next highest rung. He continued like that for several, slow, agonizing minutes. By the time Kallus had finally reached the top of the ladder, his arms were shaking and sweat was dripping profusely off his brow and down his chin.

He placed his hands just outside the hatch onto the ship’s deck, then with one final heave, he pulled himself up and out of the space below. His entire body fell to the side and his legs just below the knee where still bellow-deck. He breathed heavily and his eyelids fluttered, dangerously close to closing fully.

Such a minor exertion of physical strength typically would not have been enough for even the ex-Agent’s heart rate to increase. But in his weakened state, it had almost tapped his energy reserves completely. His vision blurred and Kallus suddenly felt queasy, the meager contents of his stomach threatening to purge themselves. The corners of his eyes were pricked with hot liquid; Kallus swallowed, forcing tears back.

His weakness was as humiliating as it was painful, even with a droid as his only witness. The cursed thing was beeping at him in a manner that could be mistaken for worried.

He grunted at it, “Just leave me be, machine.” Kallus took several deep steadying breaths before continuing, willing his heartbeat to slow. “I… will only be a moment.”

A minute too many passed before Kallus felt well enough to move again, gritting his teeth as he pulled his legs out from the hatch’s opening. He choked down a pained howl that threatened to escape him as his injured leg dropped harshly onto the ship’s deck. His gloved fists clenched and Kallus glared at the droid as it approached him.

“Go… go subdue the pilot-- Knock him out if you must, but _do not_ kill him,” he ordered. Too much time had already been wasted on his weakness. Shifting where he sat, Kallus pushed himself up against the nearest wall, laying his legs as comfortable out as he could. Only partially successful, his next words came out as harsh pants as pain traveled down his leg, causing his toes to curl in his boot. “Once you’ve done that… put him in one of the cargo crates. Then get it… off the ship. Tell them it was… unaccounted for cargo.”

The R2 unit somehow looked as though it wanted to argue, its half-spherical helm shaking back and forth. It moved once again toward Kallus and the Imperial’s temper flared as the droid simply would not _obey_ him.

“Go!” He snarled, done with the mechanoid’s impertinence.

It reared back, then lowered its body and rolled away from the Imperial. Weak beeps and stifled boops followed the R2 unit’s retreat as it headed toward the bridge. Had Kallus not known any better, he would have thought the droid’s feelings hurt. Guilt briefly panged in his chest-- He forced it back same as he had forced everything else back. It was a _machine._ They did not have _feelings._

Kallus kept his eyes trained to the bridge as he waited for some sign of success from the reprogrammed droid. He did not have to wait long. A loud, mechanical scream rang throughout the ship and a human wail of agony was heard shortly after. The yell was followed by a loud _thud_ of something heavy falling to the ship’s floor. Muffled as the sound was, he could not tell whether it had been the droid or the man.

The bridge doors opened and the droid rolled out, an unconscious Rebel pilot draped over its helm. The pilot's head and feet dragged along the floor on either side of the R2 unit’s frame and Kallus winced in sympathy. The man would be feeling those bumps come tomorrow morning, or whenever he woke.

Kallus’ lips thinned as the droid passed by him without acknowledgment, but he let it slide. The R2 unit did not need to speak to the former Agent for him to know the first phase of his plan had been successful. Tilting his head backwards, he rested it on the wall, staring up at the ceiling as he waited for confirmation from the droid on whether or not the rest of his plan experienced similar success.

Five minutes passed before the droid returned. He kept his head tilted back as he addressed it.

“You were successful?” He asked. The R2 unit boasted in binary and Kallus grunted his annoyance. “Then help me up.” It was not a request. Given his current state, the ex-Agent would not be standing under his own power, not unless some sort of emergency appeared that required him to break his femur further in order to escape.

He placed a hand on the droid’s helm and pushed himself to his feet, groaning as his thigh and calf muscles spasmed in protest. Inch by inch, step by step, Kallus limped his way toward the bridge, the short machine beside him the only thing keeping the Imperial from collapsing under the weight of his own body. The doors to the bridge opened just before them and Kallus had never been more relieved to see a chair in his life.

The droid kept rolling with Kallus in tow until they were directly beside the chair. He fell unceremoniously into the pilot’s seat, sagging as he allowed his pained body a moment of respite. Eventually he would have to fully take stock of his injuries, with proper medical equipment and a doctor-- if he could find one willing to keep its mouth shut and not ask questions.

“Go plug yourself in and make sure all systems remain operational,” he commanded the droid. It beeped a _yes sir_ then rolled away to its station. Kallus rolled his eyes. Turning away from the mechanoid, he refocused his attention to getting the ship airborne. Once they were in the air, even if he were discovered, it would be much harder for the Rebels to recapture him. A moving ship was far more difficult a target to take down than an injured Imperial.

He sat up fully in the chair, straightening his back and groaning as he did so. Kallus flicked switches and pressed the necessary buttons required for the ship to fly. But just as the ship was leaving the ground, there was a loud _thump_ that came from outside the craft, causing it to tilt left before righting itself.

Kallus tensed, his heart beating wildly as his mind swarmed with questions. Had he been found out? Could the pilot not have been as unconscious as the Imperial had perceived? Perhaps the hangar bay worker had been more aware of her surroundings than she had seemed. Had Garazeb realized the ex-Agent’s plan and ordered the ship brought down? But then if the latter were true, why had he heard nothing through the com-system? No force on the ground had attempted to communicate with the vessel.

They continued to rise in the air and no more unexpected bumps rocked the ship. It would seem as though he was in the clear.

Kallus released a breath he did not know he had been holding.

It was likely the former ISB’s paranoia had gotten the better of him. The shift in the ship had probably been its cargo being rocked, and Kallus, high strung as he was, had assumed the worst.

The hangar bay shrank beneath the ship and soon was nothing more than a spec on the ground. The navigation system was set to fly over the expanse of the jungle for several miles before breaching the planet’s atmosphere. A smart plan, Kallus would have to admit. Should the Empire manage to somehow track the Rebel vessel’s trajectory from where it entered orbit, they would find an expansive mass of wilderness rather than a thriving Rebel base. It would not ultimately stop the Empire from finding the Rebels, but it would buy them time to set up defenses and evacuate.

A whirr from the R2 unit pulled Kallus from his musing.

“What is it?” He asked.

More beeps and whistles were his answer and the ex-Agent’s brows to shot up in alarm. An unknown organic outside the door?

“Are you sure?” Perhaps its sensors were merely damaged and its readings off.

It shook its head, insisting they were not alone on the ship. Kallus muttered something fowl under his breath.

“You pilot the ship, I’ll… take care of our unexpected guest.” The words came out more menacing than he had intended, but ah well, old habits die hard.

He stood, steeling himself with a slow intake of breath. Walking without the aid of his crutches or the droid would be difficult, painful, potentially permanently damaging, but what awaited him back on the Rebel base would be far worse than a few cracked ribs and a broken femur. The room spun before Kallus’ eyes as he stood, causing him to sway, unsteady on his feet. The ex-Agent reached a hand up to grip his hair and the dirty-blond locks fell further into disarray on his forehead. Before he took another step, an idea that he really should have thought of sooner came to mind.

He turned back to the droid, quirked a bow and asked, “Are you equipped with a blaster?”

The thing did not even have the decency to answer Kallus, opting to throw a small blaster at the Imperial instead. His eyes narrowed as he caught it; he had thought with its memory wiped, its programmed personality the Rebels had given it would be gone as well. Ah well, he could deal with it later.

Kallus gripped the blaster with his right hand. The former Agent was a far cry from ambidextrous, but he could hardly hold a weapon effectively with his left thumb being so badly jammed. It was an inconvenience, but he was sincerely hoping he would not have to actually use the blaster. He had already caused the Rebels undue suffering from his actions as an ISB Agent and again with his final act as Fulcrum.

Perhaps the threat of violence would be enough to subdue whoever had boarded the vessel, then Kallus could simply drop them off on the planet’s surface with the droid, setting them free and ridding himself of his final loose end. While the R2 unit was undoubtedly an asset, it was also a liability. Its memory loss was temporary, and he was unaware of whether or not the Rebels had the ability to track its location.

His steps to the door were slow and labored, his injured leg dragging painfully behind. Once he reached the door, rather than opening it, he leaned against the wall it was attached to and readying his blaster for when it opened to reveal the Rebel that had snuck onboard. As soon as they opened, he would apprehend the troublesome guest. Perhaps he could even use his status as an Imperial Agent to intimidate the Rebel. Even injured as he was, Kallus knew he cut an imposing figure.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed himself away from the wall and stood to his full height. He placed his injured hand back against it for support and pointed the blaster directly forward, readying himself for the intruder.

He did not have to wait long. A series of bangs and muffled curses were heard through the closed doors. Heavy footsteps came to a stop just outside the door and Kallus swallowed down saliva that had been building up in his mouth. Brown eyes trained on the bridge’s entrance warily.

The door opened. Kallus growled.

“Don’t move, Reb—”

His narrowed eyes shot wide in shock as a towering figure stepped through the open door.

“ _Garazeb?_ ”

Of all the blasted Rebels to come aboard the stolen vessel... Kallus would have preferred one of the _Jedi_ over the man who had just walked through the bridge’s door.

“Kallus?” The Lasat frowned at him. “Figured you’d be on this ship; glad to see I was right. Well,” Garazeb looked from the blaster to the Imperial holding it. “Mostly glad.”

The former Agent did not lower the weapon, even as the hand holding it shook. Whether it was from shock or fear, he knew not.

“What… What are you doing here?” It was an idiotic question. The answer was obvious.

“What do you think I’m here for?” Garazeb turned to fully face the shorter Imperial. “Karabast, you left that datapad behind, saying you were gonna run off and what-- You didn’t think I would go after you?”

Kallus’ lips pulled into a thin line. He glared at the Lasat and was sorely tempted to shoot him. The desire passed quickly and suddenly Kallus found the blaster too heavy to hold. His arm dropped and he sighed. Tired. Defeated. There was no way he could possibly hope to overpower Garazeb Orrelios in his current state. Injured, exhausted, then there were the close quarters. A disadvantage even when the former Agent was at his best.

“… _How_ did you find me then?” A better question, one he should have started with.

Garazeb crossed his arms over his chest, staring down at the ex-Agent through unreadable eyes. They were usually so expressive and open; reading the Lasat’s moods had never been difficult for Kallus. But there was nothing showing in the wide green orbs, nothing but cold calculation.

He repressed a shiver.

“Remembered you’d been scoping out the ships before we separated. Didn’t think you’d be dumb enough to steal one though, but…” The man shrugged. “Then I ‘membered one of them was scheduled for take-off. And even busted up I figured you capable enough to sneak on board.”

Kallus could not help but smirk.

“Mm, yes, your base’s security is rather lacking.”

A growl from the Lasat and Kallus’ smirk dropped along with his eyes, the ex-Agent no longer able to meet Garazeb’s.

“Was all guess work; turns out I was right though.” The Lasat uncrossed his arms and took a step toward the Imperial, Kallus knew because the man’s strange feet suddenly entered his field of vision. He startled, looking up and taking a step back, moving his blaster back out in front of him. His muscles struggled with the weight and his arm shook.

“Do not come any closer,” his voice was hard. One might even call it desperate.

The Lasat held his hands up in a passive gesture, most likely meant to calm the Imperial, but all Kallus could focus on were the sharp claws extending from massive paws. If the Rebel were allowed any closer, they could shred him.

He did not come so far only to die. Though, he supposed, if anyone were to kill him, Garazeb had more right to the former Agent’s life than any other.

Something in his eyes must have worried the Lasat, because his tone was hedging toward anxious when he spoke.

“Kallus, whatever you’re thinking…,” The man took another step.

“Don’t!” He shouted.

“… It needs to stop. I’m not gonna hurt ya. Promise.”

Kallus laughed mirthlessly. “You shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep, Lasat.”

The blaster was mere inches from being pressed into the Lasat’s upper abdomen. Should the man step any closer, it would be touching him directly, close enough for any shot to be a kill shot. Was the Rebel so arrogant as to believe he was impervious to blaster fire?

“You won’t shoot me,” the Lasat said.

Kallus countered, “You think I won’t?”

Garazeb took another step closer, the blaster pressing into his yellow jumpsuit.

“Do it then,” Orrelios dared. He was looking directly into Kallus’ honey-brown eyes, and the Imperial could see his weakness reflected in them.

“ _Damn you_ ,” he whispered, dropping the blaster to the floor.

As soon as the weapon was no longer in his hand, Kallus sagged forward, his strength gone along with it. Strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him to the Lasat’s chest, the larger man supporting the Imperial’s weight easily.

“You’re a mess, you know that,” Garazeb’s half-muttered words were more a statement than a question and Kallus was inclined to agree. The arms around him shifted, and the ex-Agent let out a startled squawk as he felt himself being lifted into the air for the second time that day. Orrelios had picked him up, again, and begun walking over to the co-pilot’s seat, placing Kallus in it far more gently than the former Agent deserved.

The Rebel then sat down in the pilot’s seat next to him, no doubt to take control of the ship, turn it around, and deliver Kallus to his Rebel cohorts. Kallus struggled to sit upright; he would meet his demise with his back straight, not bowed. His entire body shook with the effort and gloved hands clenched tightly around the edge of the chair. He forced his eyes forward, unwilling to look at the furred man beside him.

Silence rang hollow throughout the bridge for several minutes, not a word spoken between the two organics as the jungle sped by beneath the ship. It was the droid who broke the silence whirring some worried question at the ex-Agent that he ignored. It was unfortunate when the Lasat chose not to and Kallus had to reign in a sigh as he was finally spoken to since being sat down.

“Why didn’t that thing help ya?” The Lasat inquired.

Kallus sucked in a breath and adopted a neutral expression as he realized his mistake.

“Because I did not order it to,” he admitted.

Garazeb grunted then broached the topic that had apparently really been on his mind. “We’re not gonna hurt ya, you know. That’s now how we do things.” The man sounded so sure, so honest, that Kallus wanted to believe him. But his past experiences with Rebels had taught him better; even allied with them, the Rebels had not hesitated when a chance to harm the Imperial had arisen. Garazeb, however…

“Perhaps _you_ will not,” he conceded. “But the same cannot be said for your Rebel friends.” As he spoke, his arms began to shake violently, and the rest of his body soon followed. It was actively painful to keep his eyes open and his lips parted as he panted heavily. Beads of sweat began to build up on his forehead and Kallus shook his head, trying to regain his composure.

His body had been functioning moderately well earlier, at least while seated, so why was he suddenly struggling with the mere act of sitting? He flexed his muscles, forcing his body to still.

Garazeb said the answer as it came to Kallus’ own mind, though only partially.

“Adrenalin. Looks like yours finally wore off, heh.” The man chuckled. “Was wondering when it would happen. You held up pretty good for a while there.”

The Lasat offered him a smile that Kallus could only interpret as mocking. He sniffed, keeping his voice cool even as his body trembled.

“I still have no intention of going back.”

Garazeb’s smile slipped. “Not your choice. You know I gotta take you back.”

“You really don’t. Everything I know is listed out in detail on that datapad. Your Rebellion gains nothing by you bringing me back. I did not give your secrets to the Empire before when I was--" He stopped, face going pale.

The Rebel cocked his head to the side and made a noise of confusion.

“When you were _what?_ ”

Oh, blast it all. His concussion must be worse than he had previously thought to let such a telling remark slip.

“When I was captured,” he answered. “They questioned me on what I knew of your Rebellion. I told them nothing.” He twisted his head sharply in the other’s direction, facing him with an imploring expression. “I swear to you, Garazeb, they learned nothing from me. Nothing that…” Kallus bit the corner of his lip, it began to bleed again. “Nothing that they did not already know.”

The words were truthful. He needed Garazeb to believe him. He did not betray him. Not intentionally. No matter what they had done to him-- the threats and taunts, the pain they inflicted-- Kallus had not talked.

Garazeb did not even grace the Imperial with a look and Kallus felt something within him sink at the lack of acknowledgment. If Orrelios did not believe him, he could scarcely hope any of his Rebel compatriots would.

“Garazeb, I—” He was interrupted.

“I believe you.” The Lasat still refused to look at him. “If you say you didn’t tell them anything then, well, I believe you.”

Kallus let out a shaky laugh, relieved beyond measure at the other’s words.

“Thank you.”

Garazeb grunted in response, before finally, _finally_ turning to look at the Imperial.

“You know… The Empire doesn’t just ask questions. Maybe they ask once, but if they don’t get the answer they want…” His words hung in the air and suddenly it was Kallus who could not bring himself to look at the other.

“What… what are you implying?”

The man gave him a pitying look. Kallus hated it, and in that moment, he hated the Lasat.

“C’mon, Kallus, don’t make me say it.”

He sneered. “Say what?”

His body began to shake again and Kallus could barely hold himself up in the chair as memories flashed through his mind.

“Tortured?” He spat the word out as though it were dirty. He still found himself smirking, however, when he was rewarded for his bluntness by the other’s reaction. A flinch. A blink and miss it moment. But Kallus had not, and for some strange reason he found it to be the most comical thing he had seen in quite some time.

To see such a large creature flinch at a mere _word_. Hilarious.

A dark laughed built up within him and forced itself out painfully through gasped breaths.

“Aha-haha-- _ouch_.” He wrapped his arms around himself, wheezing from the effort of every breath. His ribs were cracked. How could he have forgotten?

The Lasat reached out a massive hand as though to touch him, and Kallus bared his teeth, daring the man to try.

“Yes, Garazeb, I was tortured. How astute of you to notice.” He spoke with biting sarcasm, no longer in a mood to fake politeness. Not with the reminder of what he would be going back to once they returned to the Rebel base.

No further words were spoken.

The R2 unit rolled over and tapped its helm against Kallus’ knee. He smiled despite himself, for once feeling rather glad that he had failed in wiping its personality. It would have been a shame, for the droid had already proved to be a better person than him.

“Ah, I’m fine.” He awkwardly pat the droid’s helm. “Why don’t you go… retrieve my crutches?” Kallus side-eyed Garazeb. “I have a feeling I’ll be needing them shortly.”

The little mechanoid beeped at him once disbelievingly, but nevertheless turned to leave, complaining in binary about stubborn humans and tasks beneath its pay-grade.

He turned to the Lasat, head tilted questioningly.

“You pay your droids?” He asked. No wonder the Rebels needed to steal and scavenge, what with how they wasted what few funds they did have.

Garazeb did not respond, eyes forward, watching the expanse of wilderness passing by underneath the ship as it flew. It was not until the R2 unit had left the bridge that the man finally spoke.

“Tell me what happened to you after that comm from Fulcrum got cut.” There was no inflection in the Lasat’s words as he spoke.

Kallus’ brows rose. "I thought you read my datapad?" Everything that had been done to him, the methods used, questions asked, had all been listed out in great detail. The experience was an easier one to write about than speak. When typed out he could think about it logically, compartmentalize what was important to focus on and what was not. It was when the Imperial _talked_ that his emotions got the better of him.

The man's grip on the ship's steering tightened, though Kallus was unsure why. Was it at being called out on his lie? He knew how much Lasat warriors valued their honor.

"I did… mostly skimmed it-- Glad I did." Orrelios turned to look at him, face grim in its seriousness. "All I needed to read was the last bit, you can tell me the rest."

He scowled at that. The last bit had been difficult to write; it exposed him in a raw, vulnerable way for the coward he was. Kallus had known, expected it to be read, but he had hoped to never face the consequences of it. He really should have known better by now. The ex-Agent had written everything out so he would not be needed for the Rebels to learn _the rest_. Speaking of it now would undermine his hours spent typing and thinking and plotting aboard the _Ghost_. He supposed all of his plans crumbling around him and then having his nose rubbed in the mess they made should have been the expected outcome all along.

He opened his mouth to speak, though he had no idea where he would start. Not with how he had been discovered and what had resulted from it. If Orrelios did not know, the ex-Agent did not want to tell him, not while at his mercy. Undeserved as it may have been, he enjoyed not being looked at with hate by the other man. He would preserve the Lasat's ignorance for as long as he was able.

It was Garazeb who finally spoke, irritation evident in his voice at Kallus' lack of a response.

"You shouldn't even be conscious right now. I don't know everything-- didn't read much before the end, but what I did..." The Lasat cocked a large brow at him. "Ya shoulda blacked out from the pain by now."

Ah, now there was an easy topic, one that Kallus felt no qualm speaking freely of, as deep down, he was proud of the reason he was still functional in spite of the pain. It was, after all, one of his more notable, non-massacre related accomplishments within the Empire. Still, there was no reason for him to tell Orrelios about the serum, his involvement in it, or anything, really.

He looked into the other man's eyes, wide and open, curiosity and concern shining in their yellow-green depths. His mouth opened before he could fully process what he was saying, words coming out of his mouth as though on automatic.

“There is a serum, still in its developing stages. Kinks and unforeseen side effects that need to be fixed.” The Lasat did not interrupt him, but the ship’s speed had slowed. “It is designed to heighten the body’s pain receptors while keeping a subject conscious.”

He released a shuddering breath.

“It was used on me. Appropriate, given I played a role in its original design.” That caught the Rebel’s attention and he finally looked at Kallus. The other’s eyes were wide, one might even say the alien looked confused.

“Torture is typically carried out, at least against Rebels, by an Imperial Security Bureau Agent. And as an... a _former_ Agent, I noted on several occasions my inability to procure results due to a subject’s physical limits- not my methods."

Kallus gave Garazeb a nasty smirk, baiting the furred man in a cruel way.

“You can ask your friend Kanan Jarrus if you’re curious--about the serum or my methods.”

Orrelios reared back and his impossibly large eyes widened in fury. The man's arm raised, his hand clenched into a fist.

Kallus tilted his head forward, bracing for impact. A slight smile on his face at the other's predicable reaction.

Yet no blow was struck, not against _him._

The Lasat's fist slammed violently down on his own knee. An inarticulate growl, full of snorts and snarls emanated from deep within the alien's chest. His jaw was clenched tight, lips pulled back with fangs bared at the Imperial, who found himself feeling increasingly small where he sat. Among the muttered grumbles and grunts, the ex-Agent managed to make out only a few words, but they were enough and grateful as he was for the lack of a brute force response; he did not take the slight against his intelligence kindly.

"I _am_ thinking clearly; probably for the first time in my life." He was being completely serious, finally able to look upon the Empire and his own shortcomings through clear, if pained eyes. The Empire had never been for the greater good and neither, in turn, had Kallus, much as he had deluded himself into thinking otherwise.

Rather than confront the Imperial's claim, Garazeb merely rolled his eyes and waved the smaller man off, obviously not taking the Imperial's claim seriously.

 "Sure, sure- just... Keep talkin' 'bout what happened to you before I start adding new bruises."

After a moment's pause, Kallus continued, though there was more annoyance in his crisp voice than before, aggravated by the other's casual dismissal.

“... Thrawn had already obtained what he wanted from me during my initial capture. The interrogation, if one could call it that, had been more about _breaking_ me— no real intelligence purpose behind it.” He clenched his good hand. “They did not succeed. I think… I believe that is why he had me taken to the bridge of the _Chimaera_. To make an example of me to the crew and to show my silence meant _nothing._ ”

Kallus let out a snort of derisive laughter, more amused than he should have been at his own pathetic state.

“Thrawn really is a genius-- it was far more effective than the torture.”

He sank in his seat, rested his elbows on his thighs, and dropped his head into his gloved hands. They were still filthy, but at that point he could not care less. With how poorly his plan had gone, he deserved much worse than dirty gloves.

His shoulders hurt and his right thumb throbbed. Every breath was a struggle and his ribs burned in his chest. The swelling in his eye had worsened and his lip had yet to stop bleeding.

He wiped away a dribble of blood with his tongue, eyes closing as its coppery tang rested in the back of his throat.

Kallus’ entire body ached. He wanted to lose himself to oblivion, but could not due to the serum still wreaking its havoc within his body. Thrawn had ordered him doubly dosed before his appearance on the bridge, his pain and humiliation meant to not only feed into the Grand Admiral’s sadism, but to work as a warning to any on the ship whose loyalty had been wavering.

Garazeb broke the silence that had fallen over them.

“Kallus—” The Imperial cut him off sharply.

“I will _not_ be tortured again.” He leveled the other with a dangerous look.

Perhaps it was the freshness of the wound-- How clearly he could recall everything that had been done to him. Not one moment appeared blurry, no matter how hard he had been hit or how high the voltage had been. If he concentrated, he could almost remember the smell of his own burning flesh…

“Kallus!”

He shook, startled.

“Don’t,” the Lasat said. He looked… frightened? Whatever for? “Don’t go there. Wherever you were up here,” Garazeb pointed to his own head. “Don’t go there. Won’t do you no good. Not now.”

Kallus sighed. “I’m afraid I do not know what you mean. I cannot very well escape my own thoughts.”

The Rebel twisted his seat around to fully face the Imperial, frustration clear on his face.

“Thinking about what they did to you. Least bottling it up inside your own head without letting any of it out-- It won't do you no good." Orrelios hesitated, before adding. "I should know."

Kallus snorted. “And who exactly do you suggest I _talk about it_ to? You?”

The idea was absolutely ludicrous.

Garazeb shrugged, that odd look still on his face.

“If you keep interrupting, I’m going to stop,” Kallus said.

The Lasat’s mouth, which had been partially open, snapped shut.

“Now, where was I? Ah, yes, detailing the extent of my torture for your hearing pleasure.”

Orrelios opened his mouth as though to interrupt again, but apparently thought better of it, as his jaw slowly closed and a less than pleased look fell upon his face at Kallus’ choice of phrasing. He continued anyway, enjoying the other’s discomfort.

“The droid injected me with more than the recommended dosage.” He grinned ruefully. “My survival was not imperative and the ones in charge of the investigation were rather cross with me.” He chuckled; he had been doing quite a lot of that lately. “I can’t imagine why.”

Kallus’ good humor drained away as he continued.

“After that, it started light. Simple. A question would be asked, I would remain silent. An appropriate reprimand would be delivered. A strike to my ribs, a high voltage shock. All very standard.”

He took a deep breath, wincing even as he steeled himself against the onslaught of memories.

“It was a bit insulting, honestly. I had thought my reputation would have warranted more. Intelligence Security Agents are trained against such methods. The drug was an unexpected difficulty, but pain is nothing I cannot work against. It was not until… Until Thrawn became personally involved with the session that I began to weaken.”

Weaken, but not break. He had told Garazeb he had not, and he had been telling the truth. Much as he had wanted to near the end, he had told the Grand Admiral nothing. The only words to leave his mouth throughout the entire session were taunts meant to distract the blue alien from his goal.

"You're awfully calm about this," the Lasat finally said, interrupting the brief moment of quiet.

Kallus’ lip curled. “What would you rather me be? An incoherent, babbling mess? Clinging to you as I recall the horrors that were inflicted upon me by my former comrades?”

He shook his head. “You need to be more specific with what you want, Garazeb. Your wording leaves much to be desired. It gives me wide loopholes. You make _not_ lying easier than it should be.” His bangs fell to the side as he tilted his head toward the Lasat, his eyes narrowed and teasing. “You’re not a very good interrogator and yet…” He paused, brows furrowing in thought. “And yet, I always find myself telling you more than I would any other. I wonder why that is?”

The former Agent had no idea. Nothing the Lasat did should have been enough to intimidate him into talking, and yet he spoke. More than he should have, in fact, both back on that icy moon and now on the stolen Rebel craft.

“Is it a Lasat trait? Your eyes, possibly; I often feel compelled to speak if I gaze into them for too long.” Kallus clicked his tongue in thought. “The Empire should consider looking into it. Their methods are proving to be rather unsuccessful as of late.”

First with the Jedi, then with a former member of their own order. Kallus would have felt second-hand embarrassment for the Empire’s failures were he capable of such a thing.

Garazeb looked at the Imperial as though he had suddenly sprouted a second head, then blinked, a full grin stretching across his wide face. Then he laughed. _Loudly._

“Bwahahahaha,” Orrelios threw his head back and faked wiping away a tear. “A Lasat trait? Is that what you think?”

Kallus’ cheeks burned in resentment at the other’s laughter. Very little was known about the Lasat people, and what little was known had been wiped from the Imperial extranet. To learn about the race, one would have to visit certain blacklisted sites.

“It was a theory,” he bit out. “I can see now it was a poorly conceived one.”

Kallus did not _do_ embarrassment. Fiery resentment, however, was something he did quite well, his anger boiling just beneath his bruised skin. The Lasat’s mockery of his idea was too much for his concussion addled mind to tolerate. He ground his teeth together and glared as best he could with a swollen eye.

Garazeb continued with their conversation, visibly unperturbed by the Imperial’s anger, which only served to incense the former Agent further.

“You ever think, just maybe, you open up to me like you do cause ya like me?”

The ex-Agent’s fury was immediately doused, as though Orrelios had thrown a bucket of ice cold water on the righteous fire burning within Kallus. It was immediately replaced with bewilderment, and the Imperial could not help but scoff at the ridiculous notion.

“And you thought _my_ idea was farfetched?”

Garazeb’s ears pulled back and the alien bared his fanged teeth, chagrined by the Imperial’s contemptuous teasing.

“And what’s so hard to believe about that, eh? I’m a likable guy.” Orrelios jabbed a thumb at his own chest, puffing it out in a most unnecessary manner. The man really was put-off by Kallus’ derision of his suggestion. Interesting.

“Because, Garazeb, I do not _like_ anyone.” He averted his eyes from the other as his thoughts drifted. _Not even myself…_

It was Orrelios’ turn to scoff.

“Right, and what, I’m to assume you rebelled from your _precious,_ " the man used air quotes. "Empire because of how much you _don’t_ like me?”

Kallus snapped his attention back to the Lasat, words nearly coming out a stutter as he rejected the other’s obvious implications.

“That’s not—” He snarled. “You make it sound as though I rebelled because of you!”

He had not. His decision to betray the Empire, to be catalyzed by one man? One _alien?_ Impossible, Kallus was not so simple, not so easily swayed from his loyalties. It had been research and realizations, neither of which he would have ever experienced without the Lasat’s prompting. The understanding and brief sense of camaraderie he had experienced on Bahryn with the Rebel, it had all been… enlightening.  However, that did not mean that he… to suggest that Kallus would… He--

“Nothing wrong with having a friend, Kallus.”

The gruff voice dragged him out of his own mind and back to the present, forcing him to turn his attention to Garazeb, who was looking at the Imperial with what could almost be called smug satisfaction, as though he had illuminated Kallus to a fact, some truth about himself, that the former Agent had been previously unaware of.

Well, the Rebel was wrong. _Very_ wrong.

“I betrayed the Empire,” he paused, considering his next words carefully. “Because it was the right thing to do." He sounded less certain than intended. But, why... Orrelios might have _inspired_ him to act, but the alien was far from the only reason he had.

Garazeb grunted in disbelief, not letting the comment slide. “Right, right-- and since when have _you_ cared about doing the right thing?” The alien’s words came out disdainfully, and Kallus felt the sudden urge to defend himself.

But he could not. With what he had done to preserve order, how he had allowed himself to justify every heinous act committed by himself and the Empire in the name of peace— in hindsight it was obvious what a hypocrite he had been. Somewhere along the line, after graduating the academy, becoming an Agent, he had pushed his own morals back, turned a blind eye to his own villainous tendencies.

His willingness to do the dirtier work required of an Imperial Agent had likely began nearly a decade ago, while orbiting Onderon with his first unit, after Saw Gerrera's Lasat mercenary had slain every Imperial onboard except for Kallus. Any sympathy he might have held for Rebels died on that day, not to be resurrected until a crash landing in an escape pod, on a frozen moon, with a Rebel Captain. Only fitting, he mused, it should be a _Lasat_ Rebel to make him question everything he had previously believed since that disastrous day.

With him, it seemed everything, absolutely _everything,_ always came back to Lasan.

The thought caused the ex-Agent to snicker only to immediately stop, struck by a sudden realization, but-- no, wait. That sounded like he was admitting… Kallus snorted, face alighting with a manic grin. He turned his face up toward the ceiling and viewed the Rebel next to him through the corners of his eyes, addressing the alien with no small amount of self-loathing.

“I _despise_ you.”

His head throbbed painfully and the rest of his body was a few good hits away from breaking, and it could all be blamed on the man piloting the ship. The Lasat. _Lasan._

Garazeb’s eyes were unreadable, though that could just be due to the former Agent’s vision having begun to blur.

“Yeah, well…” Orrelios pulled on the ship’s steering, finally turning the ship around. “Feeling’s not mutual.”

Kallus’ eyes slid shut and his smile became slightly less manic.

“That’s because you’re an easily trusting fool.” He began to slide down in his seat, too physically drained to hold himself properly upright anymore.

The Rebel tilted his head to the side, watching Kallus’ slow descent with an irritated expression.

“Yeah? And what’s that make you, then?”

Taken off guard by the unforeseen response, he could only stare at the other blankly, gathering his wits before blowing a hot huff of disdainful air out his nose and answering—

“An _ex_ -Agent.”

Orrelios’ expression softened at that, and Kallus felt his stomach flip in response, suddenly feeling more ill than before.

“Yeah, s’pose it does. But you know, we got a good couple more hours before we get back to base.” The alien stroked his long goatee, and Kallus’ drowsily wondered how it felt compared to his shorter fur. “You really ought to get some sleep. Your body’s runnin’ on fumes and even I can see those are almost out.”

Languidly, the former Agent allowed his body to slump to the floor, posterior landing on the hard-metallic surface with a dull _thud_ as he fell from the chair. His head rolled back, resting it on the edge of the seat he had fallen from.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Orrelios chuckled. It was a pleasant sound.

“Just get some sleep, ya bugger.”

Kallus almost did, his breathing evened out and the Imperial could see the inky black tendrils of nothingness begin to creep into his vision. It would be effortless to give in and rest as the Lasat suggested. The first pain free act the former Agent had committed since being outed as Fulcrum. He really did want to sleep, needed it. But, he could not--not without confirming that Garazeb… He would…

 “…Will you be there when I wake up?”

Garazeb’s smile was all teeth.

“Course.”

Though the Rebel Captain being present once he awoke did not guarantee Kallus’ safety. There had been too much room for error in the Imperial’s words. It would be easy for the Lasat to slip through the holes with his honor intact. The former Agent's suspicions rose.

“When I wake— will it be in a Rebel interrogation cell?”

The smile dropped and Orrelios rolled his eyes, clearly done dealing with the Imperial’s completely warranted paranoia.

“Karabast, _no_. Now get some sleep or—” A light went off in the Lasat’s eyes and the man’s exasperated expression turned triumphant. “How ‘bout we make a deal?”

Unfocused as his mind was, Kallus’ interest was piqued. Deals were something the former ISB Agent had excelled at, striking them with specific syntax meant to benefit himself over whomever he was making it with all unbeknownst to them. His earlier deal with the Rebel Captain served as a testament to that.

“I’m listening,” he said.

“You get some sleep, yeah? And _I’ll_ make sure you don’t end up in a torture chamber. Those terms sound good to ya?”

His one good eye remained open and he regarded the larger man through it, squinting, his voice coming out more accusing than inquisitive when he asked—

“Why do you want me to sleep so badly?”

Garazeb snorted.

“Cause it means you’ll finally shut it—and you need it.” The last few words were spoken softer than the others and Kallus could not bring himself to become affronted at the ones that had preceded them. He was simply too tired to expend energy on anger anymore.

Instead, he continued his line of questioning.

“Returning to base should not take that long….” The query implied within the half-murmured statement was obvious.

_Why will it?_

No longer looking at the slouched, battered and bruised man seated next to him, Garazeb responded.

“Cause I need to think.” The alien did not elaborate.

The Rebel was staring straight ahead, his attention no longer on the injured man beside him. If Kallus had half a mind, he would have been insulted-- He was a former ISB Agent, he was dangerous. He did not protest, however, his mind being too preoccupied with how Orrelios' green eyes had begun to blend into his purple-striped fur. How could they have possibly managed that? Another Lasat trick, most likely.

The blend of muted purples and greens were becoming near painful to his already straining eye. So he closed it, allowing the tenuous hold he had on his consciousness slip, finding sleep much easier than he should have. Captured and aboard a stolen Rebel craft, awaiting return to his most assured continued suffering. Though his willingness to slumber in such conditions were not completely unheard of. It was not the first time he had been unconscious in the other’s presence, after all.

Hn, easily trusting fool indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End chapter two. 
> 
> Updates for the story will likely, at a minimum, be ten days apart. This is because it takes me a few days to write and by beta a few more to edit. I have every intention of completing the story and already the major plot elements plotted out. Feedback is welcome and appreciated.
> 
> (Side note, anyone else disappointed as all Hell in the episode The Occupation? I mean, Zeb and Kallus were in the ship together and didn't even share a frame.)


	3. Chapter 3

Kallus sat on a moderately cushioned bed, his bare feet placed firmly on the cold floor as his legs supported the weight of his hunched form. His elbows pressed against his thighs, his arms bent upward as he clenched his un-gloved hands together in front of his face. Sharp brows drew together in thought and a deep frown settled upon the Imperial's face. He was contemplating how he had found himself entrenched in such an unforeseen predicament. Where he had gone wrong, and the man who had caused it all.

When he had first awoken after passing out aboard the stolen Rebel craft, the ex-Agent had expected to find himself in a cell, heavily guarded and just as damaged as before. He had not, instead finding himself inside what looked to be an average, unsuspecting room. One with gray walls and a refresher attached to it. The door to the refresher was located next to a corner in the back of the room. A sole dresser was also in the room, scratched and worn and a single short table pushed against a wall next to the head of the bed. A lamp sat atop it, unlit and ugly. The shade around its bulb was pukish-yellow, frayed around the edges and wholly unattractive. There were alien markings at its base, foreign and bold in their lettering.

Kallus' eyes flicked to it now, and his frown deepened as a realization settled upon him. He had just spent several minutes scrutinizing the appearance of a _lamp._ Healed as he felt, the Imperial's head must have still been damaged if he were wasting time studying such unimportant details.

Drawing in a deep breath, the former Agent refocused his thoughts.

When he had awoken, it had not been in the clothes he had passed out in, nor had he been as badly damaged as when he had been captured. His tight black Imperial uniform had been replaced with more casual garments. Dark brown pants made of a thin cloth that were clearly meant to be used as sleepwear hung low on his hips, and a dark blue shirt that fit loosely around his torso. No socks, no shoes, no gloves. It had incensed him, at first, waking to find himself stripped of all that he owned. It was not until the reason why had been explained that he had calmed.

The doctors had wanted to place Kallus in a bacta tank immediately after checking over his unconscious form. There was internal damage stemming from the cracked ribs that they could do nothing for and then there had been the unknown drug coursing through his blood stream. The Rebel doctors had never come across such a drug and had feared for his life should they take time to study it rather than treat. Their response was unusual for members of the medical profession; any self-respecting medic Kallus had come across would have been ecstatic to be the first to discover a new chemical attack used by the enemy. The loss of one life was hardly an unfair trade for the possible knowledge gained.

Kallus was grateful for the Rebels' lack of perspective, as even allied with them their loss was his gain. Though, that same sentiment did not extend to all of the Rebels. One in particular to be precise.

Garazeb Orrelios.

The Rebel Captain had surprisingly kept the promise he made to a half-delirious and undeserved Imperial. Honestly, Kallus had not anticipated finding the Lasat watching over him once he came to, Orrelios no doubt having more important matters to attend to than a captured former ISB Agent. Status as Fulcrum _be damned_ \-- Kallus did _not_ warrant the hospitality being shown to him, least of all by the man he had hurt most during his time serving the Empire.

Yet Garazeb had said nothing derogatory upon Kallus' awakening, he had not called the ex-agent on his weakness, nor had he mocked the Imperial for his botched escape attempt. He had simply said good morning and then asked if Kallus wanted any breakfast. The former Agent had nodded dumbly in response, floored by the blanket of generosity the other had extended to him, as though there were not two years worth of animosity between them.

The Lasat had nodded, said he would not take long, and then left off to wherever the Rebels' galley was located. Or perhaps he had never left at all? Instead, waiting just outside the door to test whether the Imperial would try to escape again. A smart move, the first the alien would have made in regard to the former Agent since he first boarded the _Ghost_ \- no, even before that. The first sensible thing the man had done in regard to Kallus since saving him on that Geonosian moon so many months ago.

Trusting him had been a mistake, the Rebels' losses on Atollon had proven that. And once the Rebels realized the truth of it, read his datapad and understood exactly what _Fulcrum_ had cost them, they would do away with him. Imprisonment was a lenient sentence, one the ex-Agent knew he did not deserve. The Rebels would have him executed, of that there was no doubt. Kallus should try to escape.

He should, but he did not. Rather, he sat on a comfortable bed, contemplated his life's existence, made peace with his impending demise, and waited for the Lasat to return with his breakfast. He was going to die, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Now of course, Kallus did not _want_ to die. As pitiful as his life was, he wanted to keep it. Had death been something he desired, he never would have escaped the _Chimaera._

But more than his own meaningless wish to live, the former Agent understood why the Rebels would be clamoring for his blood. The Empire would have already done away with him had he cost them what he had cost the Rebellion. They would not have been so generous as to offer him a last meal and upon his request. Nor keep one of their higher ranked officers with him during the execution.

_His_ execution.

Kallus took a deep breath, settling his frayed nerves as he waited for the inevitable. The room smelt like a Lasat, and as pungent as their scent was known to be, the former Agent found he did not mind it. He had smelled worse-- _burnt flesh, singed and smoking after being prodded by a high voltage shock stick_ \-- after all.

The sound of a door panel beeping pulled the Imperial from his thoughts, and he straightened where he sat, placing both hands on his knees as he schooled his expression so that his face betrayed nothing of the trepidation he felt. He would not succumb to his fears, not as he had back on the stolen Rebel ship.

The door slid open and Kallus' stomach gurgled as the smell of food wafted into the room. His face remained impassive as Garazeb stepped through the open door, hazel eyes watching as the Rebel Captain expertly balanced two trays in one hand, using his free paw to close the door behind him. It slid shut and his eyes rose from the food to the alien carrying it. Their eyes locked and an impromptu staring contest began. Tens of seconds passed by with neither man speaking. It was the Imperial who finally broke the tense silence, though not through words.

His stomach growled, _loudly._

Pale cheeks reddened, and Kallus wrapped both arms around his abdomen, as though he could physically hold back any more compromising sounds from escaping.

The Lasat chuckled and Kallus frowned at him. His went unnoticed as Orrelios came closer to him, whatever force that had kept him rooted by the door apparently broken. A tray was held out to the Imperial and he took it, placing it over his lap as his eyes drank in the exorbitant meal that had been bestowed upon him: bright yellow eggs, two sausages made of a meat the ex-Agent did not recognize, strips of bacon made of a similar meat, and then there was the beverage, placed up and to the left of the plate: a white mug filled with a steaming black liquid. The sharp blade that was addiction stabbed deep into Kallus’ brain, rendering him incapable of any thought past sating his need.

He reached for the caf, his grip on the mug tight even as his hands shook with want. He drank the liquid greedily, like a man who had been starved. Which coincidentally, he had been. The burning liquid was hot on his tongue and scorched its way down his throat. Too hot to taste, the coffee burnt his taste buds. He did not mind.

Coffee had never been Kallus’ beverage of choice, its taste always felt heavy on his tongue, and the flavor remained in his mouth long past its welcome. The temporary energy boosts the caffeine provided never lasted enough to justify its use. Passionate as he had been about his work, the former Agent had never needed it.

 And then he became Fulcrum.

A satisfied, breathy sound left him as he finally placed the mug back down on the tray. He turned his eyes from the cup, to the food, then to the man who had given it to him. For a split-second, Kallus forgot to breathe. Orrelios had not touched his own food.

Rather, the man sat staring at the Imperial, his eyes wide and jaw slackened in shock. The Imperial’s face paled, and he cleared his throat uncomfortably. He turned his face away from the Lasat, ashamed and actively fighting the urge to scarf the food down like a starving animal.

“Kriff, we got more coffee.” Garazeb said, grinning with forced humor, obviously uncomfortable after witnessing the Imperial’s lapse of control.

Kallus was slow to respond, his eyes glued to the food in his lap, watching as it grew cold.  “… That will not be necessary,” he muttered. The Rebel Captain nodded then turned to his own food, no doubt wanting to finish it before it grew cold. And really Kallus ought to do the same.

He reached for a fork and lifted it lethargically, stabbing a piece of sausage and bringing the meat to his mouth. Taking a bite, he chewed slowly. He swallowed and placed the fork down, sausage still on it, his hunger forgotten. Another one of the benefits of caf; it acted as a temporary appetite suppressant.

“Not hungry?” The other man asked through mouthfuls of eggs. Kallus shook his head, whether it was a confirmation or denial, would be up for Orrelios to decide. Continuing to ignore his own breakfast, he watched as the other man ate in mild disbelief. The Lasat was using the silverware, he even used the dull knife on his plate to cut the sausage into smaller pieces before eating it. Coming from a less advanced and more barbaric world, Kallus had expected the alien to shovel the food into his mouth much like the wild beast he resembled.

Though, he should not be too surprised-- Garazeb always had a way of exceeding Kallus’ expectations.

He turned back to the food in his lap and picked the fork back up. Even if he no longer felt hungry, he would eat. Garazeb had gone to the trouble of procuring it for him, wasting it would have been rude. And then there was the fact that it was to be his _last._

They sat like that, slowly eating in silence for nearly twenty minutes, neither man looking at the other as they finished the food on their plates.

It was the Rebel Captain who eventually broke the spell of silence that had descended upon them. The purple-striped man reaching over to place his empty tray atop Kallus’ own.

“Set those on the table, would ya?” Orrelios pointed a clawed digit to the short table where the hideous lamp was on top of.

Kallus’ eyes were dull as he replied with the Lasat’s request, setting the trays on the bedside table, the plates clattering as he did so.

“What now?” He inquired without inflection.

The Lasat was looking at him, but Kallus did not return the other’s gaze. His thoughts were a tangled, unbalanced mess, theories of how the Rebels would do away with him predominating the chaos. A firing squad was not their style and the Rebels were too humane to electrocute him. Lethal injection seemed the most likely…

A large furred hand waved in front of the Imperial’s face and he blinked his eyes rapidly, shaking his head as he was startled back to awareness.

But that was fine, Garazeb had already done so much for him that the want Kallus had for the Rebel to understand him was nothing short of rapacious. He would not waste Orrelios’ time by attempting to explain what he himself could scarcely comprehend. The former Agent had been at peace before breakfast, now, with the Lasat seated next to him acting concerned and anxious, Kallus felt his nerves unraveling.

“I don’t suppose shoes would be too much to ask for?” There was no _hope_ to be found in his voice.

“Ah, yeah, ‘bout that,” Gaeazeb laughed uncomfortably. “Those clothes yer wearing? Those are mine.” The Lasat wiggled his toes. “Don’t exactly wear shoes.”

No other Rebel had been willing to donate their clothing then. Kallus closed his eyes as resignation settled within him. He would be marching to his death barefoot and in clothes several sizes too big for his body.

Opening his eyes, he suddenly declared, “I would like to use the refresher, first.”

Orrelios tilted his head. “First?”

Kallus nodded, then added, “If I may?”

An amused grunt left the alien and the man turned his head away from the Imperial, ears flat as he proclaimed, “Karabast, this is different.”

Kallus’ eyes narrowed. “What?”

Garazeb rubbed the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at the Imperial as he struggled for words. “Dunno, m’not used to you bein’ so kriffin’ _docile._ ” His eyes finally locked onto the ex-Agent and the Rebel’s voice firmed. “You’re kinda feakin’ me out, Kallus.”

“I’m captured, barefoot, and awaiting my impending demise—What exactly did you expect of me?” He smirked. “Not another escape attempt, surely- I’ve learned my lesson.”

“C’mon now, it’s not gonna be that bad.” The Lasat’s hands clenched and unclenched, at a loss of how to handle the funereal human. Kallus shook his head, more amused than comforted by the other’s concern. His death had the potential to _negatively_ affect the Rebel Captain, exactly the opposite of what the former Agent would have preferred.

Ignoring Orrelios’ distress entirely, he turned toward the back of the room, his bare feet padding against the metal floor as he walked.

“Don’t take too long,” Garazeb called after him. “Commander Mothma’s waiting for us.”

The politician? Kallus mulled the new information over in his head as he palmed the controls to the refresher door.

Politicians within the Empire were only good for putting on shows for the masses, they behaved more like rodents than leaders. Thus, the former Agent had held no qualms when he had been asked to carryout Minister Tua’s assassination. He still did not feel any guilt over her death. Simpleminded and oblivious, she had walked into her own demise. Had the Minister not been so unwitting and obvious in her manipulations, Kallus might have felt something other than pity for her.

He stepped into the refresher and the door slid shut behind him. Overall, it was a relatively small room, and Kallus’ nose scrunched in disgust as he saw how close the shower was to the loo. The placement of the sink was scarcely any better, being only a couple of centimeters from the refresher’s door. The Imperial took the necessary steps to stand in front of the sink, turning toward it, he braced both his hands against its thick metal edges. While he had told Garazeb he wanted to use the refresher, he did not _need_ to. Not for the reason the Lasat likely suspected, at least.

He observed himself in the mirror, taking note of his healed lip, lack of bruises, and no longer black eye. Kallus looked and felt better than he had in days. The only ailment to still plague the Imperial was his right leg. While the medical staff had managed to fix the damage done to it by Thrawn, the damage that had been done to it on Bahryn remained. The bone had never properly set, he had returned to the Empire too late and short of surgery, there had been nothing the medics could do. Not wanting to subject himself to the torment that was a major surgery, Kallus had refused.

The pain he felt from his bones grinding incorrectly together was minor, and while cold exacerbated the issue, it was nothing the former Agent could not tolerate, avoidant as he was of the wintrier temperatures. Besides, had he succumbed and allowed himself to be operated on, the doctors would have removed his leg entirely. Easier to amputate than go in and fix the bones. A prosthetic would have been more practical, in any case, giving him an edge in combat even; that was the justification they had given for refusing to simply reset the bone.

The ex-Agent’s superiors had been disappointed in him for refusing the _upgrade._

Kallus frowned, pushing thoughts of his former comrades out of his mind. Then, squaring his shoulders, the Imperial took a deep, steadying breath. He pushed himself away from the sink and stood straight. Reaching down, he turned on the sink’s faucet and wet his hand. Then, he worked best he could to fix his unkempt hair, combing his wet hand through the dirty-blond locks in an attempt to slick them back. His efforts were only comparatively successful to no attempt at all--his hair still looked a mess. The only difference from before being that it was wet, and his bangs were no longer in his eyes.

Kallus sighed, defeated. He had wanted to look more presentable for his upcoming execution, like the formidable enemy Garazeb had come to know him as over the course of two years. Not some pathetic drowned Imperial rat. Ah well, the wet hair would at least aid the Rebels if they _did_ by some chance decide to go with electrocution as their sentencing method.

Exiting the refresher, the Imperial’s eyes narrowed as he spotted the Lasat reading.

“Ready?” Orrelios asked, looking up from the datapad he had been holding. Kallus looked at it through narrowed eyes. So, the Rebel _had_ kept it. Why though, if not for the intent to present it to his superiors once the Imperial was no longer among the living.

“As I’ll ever be,” Kallus replied despairingly.

Garazeb’s ears shot down at the Imperial’s tone and he slowly placed the datapad down on the bed.

“… Let’s get goin’ then,” Orrelios said, yellow-green eyes following the former Agent’s approaching form warily.

Kallus gave a sharp nod and waited for the alien to open the door. Their eyes locked and once again Kallus found himself unable to read the other’s expression. What did the other man see when he looked at the human? Who was wearing clothes too large for his body, was without shoes, and whose over all appearance was a far cry from the imposing ISB Agent who had rivaled him for nearly three years.

The door opened, and they stepped out into the hallway; it was empty, and Kallus had a sneaking suspicion that it was not a coincidence. Yavin IV was a busy base, overcrowded with Rebels it had not been prepared to house. It seemed unlikely the passageway would just so happen to be empty the exact moment they decided to enter it. He did not voice his suspicions to the Lasat- the alien was either aware of or _the cause_ for the lack of riffraff in the passageway.

“Well,” he looked up at the taller man. “Lead the way.”

Orrelios nodded, marching forward and gesturing with his shoulder for Kallus to follow him.

“It’s this way. Not too far off from here, actually.”

Kallus sniffed, “How convenient.”

They passed by three closed doors as walked, and to keep his mind from straying that would lead him to bolt, Kallus counted them. His haze-brown eyes observing every detail in their structure, no matter how minute. He could not afford to allow his mind to wander as already the former Agent was feeling the urge to flee.

The Lasat used one hand to block the console beside the door from Kallus’ view, and the other to type in whatever code was needed to open it. Kallus scoffed at the unnecessary use of secrecy; soon it would not matter _what_ Rebel secrets the Imperial knew. A loud beep was heard and then the door slid open.

Before entering, Kallus looked up at the taller man through half-lid eyes. Speaking softly as he admitted, “I would prefer if you were the one to do it.” For no other deserved to take his life more than Garazeb Orrelios.

The man huffed, then surprised the Imperial by agreeing. “Same here, but the most I could get from leadership was for ‘em to let me be in there with ya. Can’t talk though,” the Lasat shrugged apologetically. “Sorry I couldn’t do more.”

“You don’t…” Kallus sucked in a breath. “You have nothing to apologize for. If anything, it is I who should be the one apologizing. Though, I know there is nothing I could ever say to make up for the suffering I caused you.”

Orrelios’ head jerked back at that, and the furred man opened his large mouth only to close it, a purely alien sound emanating from the Rebel’s chest. Whatever response was building in within the Lasat, Kallus had no intention of hearing it. He did not need to feel worse than he already did, wanting to meet his Maker in at least some measure of peace.

Garazeb opened his mouth once more only for Kallus to brush pass him, effectively cutting the Lasat off and ending their conversation. He could spend an entire day apologizing to the Rebel Captain for every wrong done to him by the former Agent and still not cover everything. It was a fruitless effort, and likely an unwanted one. Kallus was the Imperial soldier credited with the fall of Lasan, after all, the truth of the title irrelevant to the sorrow he felt over the part he played in the planet’s destruction.

Attention going from the Rebel Captain to the room he had been lead to, his eyes roved over its contents and he tried to determine the means of his execution. It was an unassuming room, the walls gray, same as the ceiling -- where a security camera hung – and the floor. A single long metal table was in the center of the room, a chair on each opposite end. In the one closest to the door sat the politician, Mon Mothma.

“Agent Kallus,” she welcomed him. “It is nice to finally meet you-- I do hope Captain Orrelios has been hospitable.”

 The Imperial balked, stoicism momentarily forgotten. There were no instruments of destruction to be seen. Not unless they intended for the Lasat to _beat_ him to death with a chair.

“What is this?” He asked, voice incredulous.

“An interview,” Mon Mothma answered, the barest hint of a smile plying at her wrinkled lips. “Please,” she waved a regal hand toward the chair on the other end of the table. “Have a seat.”

“An interrogation, you mean.” Kallus sniped, walking forward to the chair despite his misgivings. He grabbed the chair, and its metal legs scraped unpleasantly against the floor as he pulled it out. He then sat at attention, back ram-rod straight as he silently fumed.

How foolish did she think him to be? ISB Agents reveled in manipulation and the art of deception. The Rebel leader wanted information, and since the Empire had been unsuccessful using more brutish methods, Mothma must have thought she could succeed with insincere compassion. There was no possibility that her leniency was anything but dishonest; he did not deserve it and none but Orrelios had been incautious enough to think he did.

“It is whichever you choose it to be, Agent Kallus.” The woman smiled saccharinely, and the ex-Agent found himself returning the faux-friendly expression.

Oh, but she was _good._

“An interview then,” he decided, unable to keep himself from playing along with her little charade. “Though you will have to inform me for what position it is for.” His voice was light and belied an openness that he did not feel.

The entire set up was an obvious ploy for information, and whatever information Commander Mothma hoped to gain from the ex-Agent, she would have it. Had Garazeb simply given his superiors the datapad Kallus had filled out, the need for an interrogation disguised as an interview would have been rendered moot. The move had been idiotic on the Lasat’s behalf, unnecessary, and did nothing to benefit his Rebellion. It also wasted the hours of hard work Kallus had dedicated into filling it out.

If only Kallus could feel something other than gratitude for the Rebel Captain’s needless protection.

His eyes strayed from the former Senator to the alien leaning against the wall to his left. His purple-striped arms were crossed over his broad chest, and the corners of his thick lips were creased in a deep frown. The man was clearly stressed, though over what Kallus did not know. Were he in any other situation, he would have asked— his business or no, if there was something the ex-Agent could do to alleviate the Rebel Captain’s worries, he would.

Mon Mothma coughed, and Kallus’ attention was forced from the Lasat to the Commander. He was not unappreciative for the return to reality-- his previous line of thought had been a dangerous one. It lead to _attachments._

“I will not lie to you, Kallus. The Rebellion owes you a great deal. You risked your life for us as Fulcrum and then again to warn us of Thrawn's attack on Attalon.” She bowed her head forward as a sign of gratitude and the former Agent could have _sworn_ the gesture was a sincere one. But that was impossible. She simply did not know the truth. With the exception of Garazeb Orrelios, none of the Rebels did.

"But, of course," Mothma continued on a more somber note. "You must understand there are those who question your motives. We still do not know how _you_ became Fulcrum. The codename and passphrase associated with it are of the highest security."

The Senator pointed to the ceiling, and Kallus did not need to look up to know what she was pointing at.

"I would like to get your side of the story, for the record, before any decision regarding your stay here has been made. You do not have to answer anything you do not wish-- Though, I _am_ asking for you to cooperate to your fullest."

Kallus almost told her about the datapad, the one that held everything she and her Generals wanted to know of him. He refrained, however, because he did not know how knowledge of the datapad's existence would affect Garazeb. Would he be reprimanded for failing to inform his superiors of it? Rebel leadership could come to the same assessment regarding the Lasat as Kallus had-- that the man was compromised in his judgment of the former Agent. After their conversation on the stolen Rebel ship, the Imperial suspected it was due to some misplaced idea Orrelios had that he was responsible for Kallus, the Rebel Captain having deluded himself into believing himself the sole reason for said Imperial's defection, after all.

If Kallus happened to live past the interview, to see another day, he would set the Lasat to rights. He would not have the other beholden to him, in _any_ capacity.

Coming to a decision, the ex-Agent placed his clasped hands on the table. “I’ll tell you everything,” he asserted, tilting his head slightly. “You need only ask.” He meant every word.

“Very well then,” her smile never wavered. “Let’s start with your full name.”

“… You want to know my name?” He spoke haltingly, brows furrowing in confusion. What information could she possibly gleam by learning his name? He had no living relatives, his family had not even been blip on the Empire’s radar before he joined its military ranks. There was nothing of significance regarding the Kalluses before their only child had reached the rank of Agent.

“You do not have to tell me, if you would prefer to only be known as Kallus.” The Commander’s smile did not reach her eyes, and the Imperial concluded that he was being tested. For what purpose, though? His honesty? Willingness to cooperate?

“No, it’s…. It’s Alexsandr Kallus.” He spoke each syllable deliberately, his first name rolling off his tongue as though he were unfamiliar with it. Which he was; in the military first names became redundant, rarely used unless in the company of close friends-- so never in Kallus’ case.

“ _Alexsandr_ , it sounds so regal.” The politician was patronizing him, but to acknowledge he was aware of her machinations would mean losing to them.

“I assure you, it is not.” His eyes pinched at the corners. He was loath to continue this sham of an interview, but if it was what the Rebels wanted of him, they would have it.

“Anyway, if we could please continue with the interview…” He trailed off, not-so subtly hinting that he wanted the subject of his name dropped. His dislike of it notwithstanding, it really was an unimportant topic, wasting both his time and the Commander’s.

"Yes, of course," she continued to smile. "Where are you from? What planet do you hail from?"

Of all the inane, questions she could have asked-- "Coruscant," he grit out, smile straining.

"A lovely planet." Her smile never wavered. "What was growing up there like? Your parents--"

"Next question, please," Kallus abruptly interrupted the Senator.

Now he was the one testing her. The Rebel Commander had stated that Kallus would not need to answer any questions he did not want to, and the topic of his youth and parents was one the Imperial wanted off the table. His past before joining Imperial ranks was a time the ex-Agent _detested_ recalling. Having grown up in the planet's underground, uneducated, wallowing in the squalor of poverty-- No, that was a point in Kallus’ life that he would rather not discuss. Ever.

His parents were dead, anyway, so any concerns she held over the Empire using them against the former Agent were misplaced.

Mon Mothma continued her line of questioning as though never interrupted.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-seven."

"What was your age when you first joined the military?"

"Fifteen."

"So young," she breathed.

Kallus' smile turned sour. "From reports I've read, your Rebellion recruits them younger-- Kidnapping _infants?_ " The pitch of his voice raised, accusatory.

"The Sith would have killed them," she alleged.

"You don't know that."

"Were children accounted for then? When you burnt down Tarkintown?" Mothma slammed her hands down on the table, steel gray eyes hard and damning as she stared down the Imperial.

Kallus could see he was being intentionally provoked, and the former Agent was never one to turn away from a challenge. He wanted to stand, to look down at the woman and inform her he was not to be trifled with. Kill him, interrogate him, but do not insult his intelligence with _insipid_ mind games.

He rose slightly in his seat, only for his jaw to slacken in shock as two large purple hands took hold of his shoulders, pushing him back down in his chair. His eyes widened and he turned his head sharply, locking gazes with the man who held him down. The Lasat had moved from the wall to stand directly behind the Imperial. The Lasat had moved and Kallus had missed it. The Lasat could have killed him and Kallus would have not been aware until it was too late.

Careless, bad form, and if death were still coming, he deserved it for such a mistake.

"Tarkintown... " Kallus breathed deeply, reining back in his shock. "Tarkintown was a _mistake_. Lord Vader ordered me to raze the city and I... did not question why."

The Rebel Commander's eyes once again turned sympathetic and Kallus found himself missing the hate. Anything was better than _pity._

"From what Captain Orrelios has told me, you never question the Empire's methods."

The former Agent's eyes narrowed, but he did not look up to the man holding him in place. Kallus had not expected the Lasat to keep their truce on Bahryn a secret from his superiors, but the ex-Agent had at least expected Garazeb to withhold _some_ of the more personal details Kallus had shared. Another lesson learned, then.

"What changed then," she continued. "What led you to start chasing those answers to questions you never asked?"

"I suppose I just received the right encouragement." He spoke lightly and the Lasat snorted behind him, but otherwise remained silent.

The politician's eyes narrowed, and Kallus could see she wanted to ask more, receive a more concrete answer from the Imperial. Skilled manipulator that she was, the Commander refrained, changing topics to how the ex-Agent had discovered the call sign Fulcrum.

Which he told her readily.

"ISB Agents maintain a Rebel watch list. It contains individuals whose actions have elicited the Bureau's attention due to their suspicious habits. Any who have suspected Rebel contacts or have the potential to turn traitor are put on the list."

He waited to see if Mothma had any further questions and, seeing she did not, he continued.

"Five months ago, the ISB discreetly arrested a man by the name of Nyo Rafeel. He worked as a Governor's aid on Betalis III. The man was suspected of Rebel collusion, and as the Empire's top Agent, I was called in to... _persuade_ him to reveal his contacts."

Kallus watched the Senator's face for any change of expression. Even the most minute twitch or slightest shake could give way to the politician's true motives. Perhaps she would inform the former Agent what she personally thought of the use of torture as a means of information gathering. He waited several seconds, finding nothing in the woman's face to betray her. Her stoicism was impressive, as Kallus did not know many Rebels who could hold in their emotions so expertly.

Respect was taking root in the Imperial's withered heart and he idly wondered if it would have time to grow, for _this_ was the woman who had fooled the Emperor.

A reaction did eventually come; however, it was not the Rebel Commander who reacted to Kallus' words, but rather the Captain who stood behind him.

Kallus' shoulder was squeezed painfully tight and he could not help but let out a yelp. His breaths came out harsher and the Imperial clenched his jaw, forcing another vocalization of hurt down. Garazeb's fury was least of all the ex-Agent deserved. The Lasat's reaction mirrored the one he had hoped to garner from Mon Mothma. He already knew her compatriot _Saw Gerrera_ approved of such tactics-- Kallus had wanted Mothma to denounce them.

"Captain Orrelios, do I need to have you removed?" She threatened coolly, not a trace of anger in her voice.

Behind him, the Lasat grumbled a chagrined _no_ to the Commander's question.

"Now, Agent Kallus, I will state for the record that the Rebellion does not approve of the Empire's _persuasion_ methods. However, I also understand the incident took place before you had taken the title Fulcrum." She clasped her hands in front of her, tilting her head forward. "Now, if you would please continue..."

He nodded once, then picked up where he left off. An unknown weight lifted off the captured Imperial’s shoulders at her assurance.

"During my interrogation, the droid in the room suffered a major malfunction. It shorted out before the session ended-- just before the conspirator revealed the identities of his Rebel contacts."

"Quite the coincidence," Mothma commented.

"Indeed," Kallus continued. "Unfortunately, the droid did not remain offline for long and shortly after Rafeel revealed his contacts, it rebooted— _hostile_ , attacking the man and killing him instantly. There was nothing I could have done to stop it."

Mothma's eyes narrowed. "I see," she said.

Nyo Rafeel had been a terrorist; the man had poisoned a rival's spouse and sabotaged an elevator. When the machine had malfunctioned, it had not only been Rafeel's political target who was killed, but innocent lives as well. Civilians had been caught in the crossfire and Rafeel had arrogantly boasted to Kallus that they _deserved_ their fate. That unlike he, they were mere pawns of the Empire who were too naive to understand their own ignorance.

_"They see it, not like the Empire's subtle, ya know? Keh, they're just too stupid to get what it means. Not like me," glazed eyes roved over the ISB Agent's stiff form. "Not like **you.** "_

No, Kallus did not regret the man's death, only that he had not been the one to _personally_ end it.

"As far as the Empire knows he died before revealing anything of significance," he assured. "I did not detail his revelations in my report. Rather I... I kept them to myself-- used them to track the Rebellion down through its intelligence network. It was startlingly easy, really."

"You really ought to have a talk with your Generals about that,” he admonished the Commander. “I was able to pose as Nyo Rafeel and by use of social engineering, coax his contacts into giving me information. It took time for them to trust me, but eventually they gave me the codename Fulcrum and the passphrase associated with it."

The Commander had questions after the revelation of her peoples’ breach in security.

"How were they not alerted to Nyo Rafeel's disappearance? Surely my agents would be checking for reports of his arrest."

Kallus shrugged. "As I said, his arrest was a quiet one not made available to the public. Rafeel was not a popular man and therefore did not have any close associates to report him missing. And the Governor?" The Imperial smirked. "His silence was bought."

Mon Mothma breathed heavily through her nose, nodding to herself as she internally reconciled her own peoples' mistakes. Had she been an Imperial Commander, heads would have already been rolling. Literally.

“Go on,” she urged him to proceed.

“There is not much to tell. I had received a means of relaying information to your Rebellion, and after some modicum of deliberation, did just that.” They were finally arriving at the crux of the matter and Kallus knew the Senator’s question before she asked it.

“Twelve years of serving the Empire faithfully and you expect us to believe you only required a _modicum_ of thought to betray them? No, I do not believe it. Why did you turn on a cause whose torch you carried for over a decade?”

“Be-because it was the right thing to do.” He stumbled over his words, the practiced response coming out less definite than when he had told it to the Lasat.

She waved away his answer away, laughing cruelly as she did so. The Commander then stood, her hands remaining clasped as she held them just beneath her bosom.

“Since when has an Imperial Agent cared about doing _the right thing?_ You burnt Tarkintown to the ground, murdered Minister Tua, massacred Lasan!” The man behind him stiffened and Kallus had to bite back a scathing retort for the woman to _shut up._ Kallus knew his failures as a human being better than anyone, he did not need some paltry politician rubbing them in his face.

“And that is just what’s publicly available about your deeds, Agent Kallus. So, I’ll ask you again, and this time I—” Some light went off behind her eyes then, and the Imperial could see she was already planning a new tactic.

“On Bahryn, Captain Orrelios said you did not depart with him. That you instead chose to wait for the Empire to send aid.” She snapped her fingers at him, like a dog, and Kallus clenched his jaw as to not bare his teeth like one.

Was his change of heart really so difficult to believe? It was not so difficult for him, in spite of his past, when put into perspective.

When Kallus had graduated the Academy top of his class, ambition had burned like a fire within him, blistering in its heat. He had used that fire to scorch any obstacle in his way, pursuing rank ruthlessly and accomplishing his assigned missions with a fiendish zeal even his superiors had been disturbed by. Bright and righteous as his aspirations had been, they had turned black after Olderon. The fire had turned into an inferno, its heavy smoke toxic as it filled his lungs and poisoned his heart, eating at him as it had his enemies, turning the Imperial into the very monster he had dedicated his life to destroying.

It had taken frigid temperatures of Bahyrn to cool those flames.

“Yes,” he ground out, on just barely keeping his temper in check.

“How were you eventually found, did the Empire come as you predicted?” Her warm gray eyes frosted over with calculation.

“… I did eventually find myself back on an Imperial ship, yes.” He hedged around the truth, unsure exactly what the politician could use such irrelevant information for.

“The _Empire_ found you?” She persisted, putting emphasis on who had found him.

His eyes narrowed. If she wanted specifics on _that_ particular incident, she could read his damn _datapad._ The Senator was no fool; they both knew, had the Empire been the one to find him, Kallus would never have taken the title of Fulcrum. Mothma wanted the admission that he had been abandoned by his _precious Empire._ Possibly as a means to stroke her ego-- politicians were known to be an arrogant lot. Him being here, with her and her Rebellion as opposed to the Empire, was a victory over her enemy, if only a minor one.

Hardly something to take pride in. All her _precious Rebellion_ had done was pick up the Empire’s trash.

It had been the dawning realization of how _insignificant_ he was in the grand scheme of the Empire that had eventually lead Kallus to seek the answers to questions he had never been brave enough to ask.

“No,” he responded, voice thick. “It was a merchant vessel under the employ of the Empire.”

Mon Mothma was quick to pursue. "The _Empire_ ordered the ship to search for you?”

"No," he grit out. "The Empire had already used its allotted time and resources to search for an officer of my rank. They called off the search before I was found."

One of the Lasat’s thumbs had begun rubbing small circles into the ex-Agent’s back as though sensing his discomfort, and it took every ounce of control Kallus possessed not to throw the Rebel’s hands off him.

“I was left to rot on that moon,” Kallus conceded.

“ _Yes_ ,” he sneered. “Your Rebellion is better than the Empire. Is that what you wanted to hear?” He glared at the woman, and had it not been for Garazeb’s firm hold on him, he would have leapt to his feet in anger.

“You should not be so proud—It is not such a high bar to leap.”

" _Kallus_ ," Garazeb barked, but a harsh glare from Mon Mothma silenced the Captain. It resulted in the alien's hold over the Imperial tightening and Kallus winced. He would have bruises later, marks to remind the former Agent of his lapse of control. They would be nothing less than he deserved. Even more so due to the man who had put them there.

Mothma closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. When she opened them, Kallus could barely recognize the woman. The politician Mon Mothma had been replaced with the Commander. She looked down at the Imperial from where she stood, but she did not _look down on him._

Kallus’ attention was riveted.

“The _Rebellion_ does not abandon its allies,” the commander spoke loudly, as though she were addressing a crowd rather than a lone Imperial prisoner. “We protect those who ask and defend those under the banner of freedom. Any who choose to stand and fight against the tyranny of the Empire have our protection _\-- Any_.” She stared directly into Kallus’ eyes then, and he found himself unable to look away, fully enraptured by the conviction, the _fire_ he saw in the Rebel Commander’s eyes.

“I will no longer dance around the issue,” she raised her chin. “Will you join our cause, Agent Kallus, officially?”

He opened his mouth to speak, hesitant, unsure of what exactly was being asked of him. Kallus had turned his back on the Empire, spied on them for the Rebellion then cut and run when his treachery had been exposed. What more could the Rebels ask of him? He had already given them all he had to offer.

“What are you asking of me?” He finally inquired.

Her gaze was piercing. “I’m asking you to _fight_.”

He was taken aback by the bluntness of her request, for while Kallus might have possessed the heart of a Rebel, he knew better than to think himself one of them.

But, then again, if Mothma was truly offering what he thought she was…

“It’s _former_ Agent, actually, and…” He drew in a quick breath. “I would like some time to think about it.”

The heavy hand on his shoulder squeezed.

“It _is_ still early,” she pursed her lips, as though in deep thought, then coming to a decision, she gave him a deathly serious expression, the same expression Mon Mothma gave to her Generals as she commanded then. “I will give you until the end of the day to come to a decision.”

“Captain Orrelios will show you around the base,” Mothma continued as she stood gracefully from her chair. She and her Rebel shared knowing looks and Kallus could not help but feel as though he were missing something. “Get to know those you will be working with, see for yourself how we are different from the Empire.” The woman turned then, heading toward the room’s exit. She stopped before reaching it, however, once again addressing the former Agent.

“I’ll expect you in my office by the of the day with your answer.” An order, even if it was not phrased as one.

“Of course,” Kallus promptly complied.

She left, the door sliding shut behind her.

The hands on his shoulders were removed the second she was gone.

He tilted his head back, eyes straining upward so he could see the man standing behind him. What next; the unspoken question that shined in their hazel-brown depths. The Lasat shrugged then walked toward the door; he waved his hand, gesturing for the ex-Agent to follow him. Not needing to be verbally told, Kallus pushed the chair back, standing as he did so. He did not know what he would decide, nor what would happen to him once he exited the… the _interview_ room, but he knew he was more than ready to leave it.

Orrelios opened the door and stood back, gripping the top of the doorframe with a purple hand as he waited for the Imperial to leave the room first. Just before he made it past the larger man, the Lasat’s owlish eyes flicked to him.

The former Agent stopped in the doorway and waited, knowing the Rebel Captain had questions for him. Ones that, while he would have preferred not to, Kallus would answer readily enough. He crossed his arms over his chest, more than a little impatient to get started on their little tour.

“So…” Garazeb began, casually. “Alexsandr, huh?”

Kallus scoffed, rolling his eyes as he left the room. Garazeb Orrelios trailed after him, a devious smile plastered across his furry face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter took much longer than expected. I was in the process of moving and my beta went all but offline for a while in order to study for an exam. She did fantastic, btw. After this updates should become more regular. Feedback is welcome, as always. 
> 
> Also, I cannot be the only one who was disappointed with the first half of Rebels season 4, can I?


	4. Chapter 4

Their chuckles echoed down the empty passageway and an amicable silence came between them as no further questions were asked. The humor fell from Kallus’ face, replaced with a contemplative frown, as his thoughts turned grim. He had truly not expected to exit that room alive, nor for the Rebel leader to ask a former Imperial Agent and prior persecutor to join her cause. He certainly didn’t expect to come out of the shadow cast by Fulcrum and openly declare his allegiance to the Rebellion.

Though, he supposed it made a small amount of sense, from a Rebel’s perspective. During his youth, Kallus had literally posed as a poster boy for the Empire’s propaganda. He was not particularly famous, but among the lower ranks and especially within the intelligence community, he was well known. Once rumors of betrayal reached those circles, morale would be affected. If Agent Kallus could turn, anyone of them could as well. It would create paranoia in the workspace and the higher-ranking officers would more than likely take their anger out on the remaining loyal Imperial Security Bureau Agents, creating an openly hostile environment. Well, more so than it already was.

The effect would be tenfold if word got out that he had betrayed the Empire for the _Rebellion._

So, in a way, he could understand the Commander’s reasoning. Her logic, if a bit flawed, for allowing Kallus into her Rebel ranks was sound. Killing him would have been simpler, though, and torturing him would have boosted her own men’s morale, similarly to how the screams of a captured Rebel prisoner tended to give any Imperials close by a slight hop in their step.

Kallus looked down to his feet, watching his own barefooted steps. His frown turned annoyed, and it was that annoyance that finally lead him to break their self-imposed silence.

“… Will I be acquiring proper attire before we begin making the rounds?” His question was met with a short, terse response.

“No.”

Kallus startled, unsuspecting as he was of the Lasat’s sharp turn in attitude. His eyes quickly scanned the alien’s form, looking for a physical sign of the change. The ears were drawn back, if only slightly.

The human refrained from speaking again; clearly something was bothering the Lasat though what, Kallus could only speculate. His interview with Mothma had not gone terribly—he was still alive, a far better outcome than he had anticipated. Could it have possibly been something he said during the interview? His derisive remarks toward the Rebellion? Or—

His means of acquiring information. His treatment of Nyo Rafeel, the _scum._

Orrelios had certainly enough time to think over what his implications had meant. Kallus had not been subtle in his insinuations. Torturing a Rebel to help the Rebels. The irony was obvious and Garazeb’s fury over Kallus’ actions, while unwarranted, was understandable.

Rafeel was trash and Orrelios’ thoughts on him were wasted. The deplorable man did not _deserve_ commiseration from the Rebel Captain. Nyo Rafeel had gotten what he _deserved_ from Kallus, and the former Agent still regretted not having been able to give him more.

“Is this about Nyo Rafeel?” He probed.

“ _Yes_ ,” Garazeb snarled.

Expectant of the Lasat’s fury, Kallus did not react to it.

“You know…” He started slowly, gauging the other’s reaction. “All things considered, I was actually quite lenient with him. Death was a kindness.”

Orrelios sucked in a breath and he stopped walking, his gruff voice coming out as a murmur as he spoke.

“You know, for a while there...” Garazeb trailed off, his yellow-green eyes looking over the human in a way that set Kallus on edge.

“For a while there, what?” He prompted.

“… I was starting to forget what you are.” The look turned pointed, and Kallus drew back, eyes wide.

_Imperial._

The word did not need to be said for Kallus to hear it, the title resounding loudly from the Lasat’s eyes, accusing.

He would not flinch from the accusation, true and deserved as it was. Alexsandr Kallus was an Imperial. He had ravaged Lasan, burnt Tarkintown to the ground, tortured Rebels, and killed, in the Lasat’s eyes, an innocent woman. He had poisoned _children._

And he had _enjoyed_ it.

“Yes, well, we cannot help what we are.” His own hazel eyes roved slowly, from top to bottom, over the alien’s purple-striped body.

Orrelios’ lips curled, and he snarled, a growl rumbling low in his chest, before abruptly turning away from Kallus.

“Let’s get started on your tour, _Imp_.”

The classification should not have had the impact of an insult. In fact, Kallus had been called much worse by Rebels he did not hold in near as high regard as the Lasat— and it stung far worse than even the most vitriol filled slurs that had ever been spewed his way.

Kallus’ brows furrowed and he clasped his hands behind his back to keep himself from wringing them together in unease.

They continued to walk and the silence that fell upon them was an uncomfortable one, suffocating in its unfiltered hostility. A bright light shone ahead through a rectangular opening and the human knew they were nearing the end of the hallway. He watched as Garazeb walked ahead of him, noting how the Lasat’s every step was stiff, as though some unknown weight were pressing down upon him. Kallus’ mouth turned down in a frown and he looked to the floor, staring unseeingly at his bare feet as he walked.

What could he say to waylay the Lasat’s resentment? To lessen whatever worry he held over Alexsandr’s undeniable Imperial-ness? Then, there were his own selfish desires to consider. That Kallus… He, well…

He did not _want_ to be a burden Garazeb had to carry. The Rebel Captain had already carried Kallus more than any other in his life, in both a literal and emotional sense.

Looking up from the floor, he opened his mouth to speak, hesitant, then closed it. There was not much in the way of reassurance Kallus could offer. What could he possibly say, to counteract a truth? He was indeed an Imperial. He had committed horrible deeds horrible deeds—monstrous, even—in the Empire’s name. The former Agent did not even fully regret everything he had done. Misguided as his actions had been at the time, they had felt right, justified, just as helping those he had wronged now felt right.

Of course, there was also the matter of whether he deserved—Maker, not _forgiveness_ , but the Lasat’s acceptance. Kallus would be lying to himself if he did not acknowledge that, at the very least, he wanted Garazeb Orrelios to _tolerate_ him. A selfish desire, he knew, one of many, but the Lasat had been the first in over a decade to show the former Agent kindness, while the Rebel Captain was not the only cause of his reawakening, he was at its catalyst.

Much as Kallus was loathe to admit.

Apologies were not something the former Agent gave often. He had done so much, hurt so many, that were he to start he would not cease until he was a withered old man. Even then, he would not have apologized to all who deserve it. So, he would not waste his time with apologies. Nothing he could say would ever make up for what he had done, the pain he had caused Garazeb and the part he had played in destroying everything the man had once cherished.

Garazeb’s pace increased, the light grew closer, and Kallus knew if he did not say something soon the opportunity to make amends would pass and they would spend the rest of the day at odds with one another, a prospect the Imperial found more disconcerting than he liked to admit.

Bolstering his courage and swallowing his pride, Kallus reached out with an unsteady hand, only to bring it back to his side, his fingers curled into a fist. The actuality of coming off as aggressive should he reach out to physically stop the Lasat was all too real, and so rather than risk it, Kallus could only hope that his _words_ would at least give the man pause.

He spoke softly, true remorse for their discourse laden in every word.

“I cannot help what I am, Zeb. But I do hope, in time, you can learn to see past it.”

They walked for a few steps more without an exchange of words and something bright sank within the ex-Agent. Then the Lasat suddenly halted, causing Kallus to nearly lose his balance and topple forward at the abruptness of it. A flicker of hope shone behind Kallus’ hazel-brown eyes. Orrelios huffed a sigh, turning back to face the Imperial with a look of resignation. His face fell, along with the hope that their disagreement had been resolved.

“You just don’t get it, do ya?”

Kallus’ face twisted in confusion. “I don’t know what you—”

The Rebel silenced the Imperial by walking forward and stepping through the light, leaving Kallus alone in the hallway.

His fists clenched at his sides and the former Agent breathed rapidly through his nose, chest puffing up with every breath. Anger at the Lasat’s dismissal and his own despondency at said dismissal twisted like a knife in his gut. To have fallen so far that an alien’s repudiation meant so much to him— but he deserved the dismissal! He knew this, emphatically so, and yet was still hurt by it. Though, what had Kallus been expecting, honestly?

He would never be anything more than a _filthy_ Imperial to the Lasat, no matter what he did. Orrelios had taken pity on him before, on the moon and in both the _Ghost_ and stolen ship, but Kallus was no longer injured and the physical authentication of what he had sacrificed for the Rebellion no longer visible. Still, his anger was misplaced and illogical. Bearing the Rebel Captain’s abhorrence would be something he simply would have to get used to. _If_ he chose to stay.

Reigning back his emotions, Kallus smoothed his face to represent cool collection, preparing to masquerade among the Rebels using the same mask he had worn within the Empire as Fulcrum.

The Imperial stepped through the open door and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the source of the blazing bright light of Yavin IV’s unbearably bright sun. The Empire’s reliance on artificial heat had ruined him. Where once the ex-Agent had been able to withstand the worst of the elements with some modicum of endurance, after rising in the ranks and participating in less and less field missions, his body had lost its adaptation.

Sweat dripped down his back and Kallus shivered, realizing with some disgust that Yavin IV had the worst kind of heat— _humid._

He kept his disgust from showing, however, and rather than look for the alien that had left him, turned back to look at the Rebels’ main base on the moon. The structure looked to be a temple of some sort, though for what Kallus could only guess. Its tall, pyramidic shape did not look like any of the Rebel or Sith temples the Imperial had ever had the misfortune to visit, nor was its exterior overtly religious in its markings.

A curiosity then, one he would have to ponder another time.

“What?” He asked, eyes narrowed.

“Nothin’,” Orrelios replied, turning away from the human and facing toward what looked to be the hangar bay. “Let’s go.”

The Rebel did not wait to see if Kallus was following before matching off in its direction. Anger at once again being so blatantly disregarded simmered just beneath Kallus’ façade of indifference. Garazeb had been kind, gentle even with the Imperial before his impromptu interview with Mon Mothma. What would he have to do to receive such treatment again? Break another leg?

What troubled him most was that the sudden change in behavior made _sense_ for the Lasat—and yet it did not. The inconsistency of it all exasperated Kallus and he bit his lip to keep from sniping a scathing retort at the Rebel’s back. More infuriating than Garazeb’s completely rational behavior were the former Agent’s own tumultuous emotions. He did not understand them. They did not coincide with anything he had ever felt before, the only time similar Kallus could recall, was when—

A low growl pulled the Imperial out of his musings. It seemed even without looking, the Lasat had known Kallus was not following him. Ah well, his emotions were merely another curiosity he would have to ponder at another time, for he had no intention of intentionally provoking the Rebel Captain, not when doing so _accidentally_ was already so easy.

He walked quickly to catch up, though the Lasat did not so much as acknowledge the Imperial as he took a place at his side. Already expecting the other’s cold demeanor, Kallus was able to better hide his reaction to it. Acknowledging an inferior civilian or lower ranking soldier had never been a requirement within the Imperial Army and it made sense that such a custom would be upheld within the Rebellion’s own forces.

They walked in silence, side by side, across the damp field of grass that lay between the Rebels’ base and their ship hangar. The quiet was uncomfortable, more than the heat or the humidity, or even the dew that wet Kallus’ feet and seeped into the bottoms of his pants. His eyes continuously flicked between the Rebel Captain, the ground, and to the surrounding jungle that circled the Rebel’s base and hangar. He found himself wishing the expanse of trees would swallow him whole, or the ground would break open bury him. Anything to remove him from the Lasat’s hostile presence.

None of those things happened, however, and soon Kallus was able to see ships and the hustle and bustle of a busy military force. There were less ships outside of the hangar than there had been when Kallus first arrived on Yavin IV. Likely they had either departed on missions or were tucked away inside the hangar. Voices, once a dull buzzing in the background, grew louder and filled the clearing. What little of nature that had been heard before was drowned out by the boisterous Rebel workers.

They stepped from the grass and onto the cool pavement of the hangar’s floor, going largely unnoticed by the busy workers. A few waved in Orrelios’ direction and the Captain’s anger apparently did not extend to his compatriots, as he waved back and even called out sociable greetings.

Kallus could do nothing to stop the bitter resentment that swelled within him at the sight, though he could not precisely identify _why_ he felt so.

They passed the majority of workers and ships, heading to the hangar’s aft bulkhead and what looked to be relative solitude, as there were fewer Rebels in the back of the building than the front. Once there, the Lasat stopped and turned to face his human charge. His face was a contorted picture of confusion, anger, and remorse. Not at all an unpleasant look for the alien, it made him look _vulnerable._ A sign of weakness and perhaps even the precursor to an apology—One Kallus readily admitted he did not deserve, but still greatly wanted.

He folded his arms behind his back, waiting for whatever it was the other man wanted to say to him. To begin the tour, to tell him to bugger off, to _apologize_ ; all were entirely possible outcomes.

Something in the Lasat’s face hardened, and he lifted a large hand to point a sharp digit in Kallus’ direction. “Now, listen you—”

A loud crash interrupted Garazeb’s outburst. Simultaneously, they both turned to look for its source.

There were several what looked to be _children_ standing around piles of cargo. Kallus counted six in total, none looking to be older than Ezra Bridger had been when the ex-Agent had first encountered him. The lot of them were laughing at a female who had fallen flat on her arse. They were pointing fingers and behaving all around like the vile retches children often were.

Scoffing, Kallus turned to look at the Lasat beside him, expecting to see a similar expression of annoyance. A smirk plying at the corner of his lips, one often shared with his former colleagues in similar situations. His smirk fell, however, as Orrelios crossed his massive arms over his chest and rumbled—

“We’re helping them.”

Kallus did not want to believe his ears. “You’re serious?”

“What, you too good to help, or does it not involve enough _torture_ for you?” Garazeb snapped.

Kallus reared back, stung.

“That is _not_ what I was implying.” A sadistic spark flickered in the Imperial’s eye, and his smirk returned, more sinister than before. “Unless that is what _you_ want, Orrelios? Need to break another one of my legs to feel _comfortable_ around the Imperial? Am I not _pitiable_ enough for you anymore? Or perhaps—”

Another crash interrupted the Imperial’s tirade.  The Lasat turned from him then, muttering as he walked away.

“C’mon.”

Kallus followed, simmering in anger.

By the time he had caught up with the Captain, Orrelios had already lifted two crates, one balanced on each shoulder, and started off in the direction of the ship that was to be loaded.

Ignoring the children as they stared at the purple alien in awe, he marched past them to lift a crate of his own. He bent down low, gripping its sides, and lifted with his knees, grunting under the strain of its bulk.

The crate was heavy, though nothing the healed Imperial could not handle. He could not lift it with the same ease as Orrelios, and he certainly could not lift two at the same time, but he did not struggle with the cargo the same way the younger Rebels did. Watching their efforts from over the top of the crate he carried was amusing, if a bit sad. Pitiful things were putting on determined faces and struggling to even lift even one crate off the ground. Their youthful complexion had flushed red from the physical strain of the simple task.

In a typical circumstances, Kallus would have left the young men and women to their own devices; if they were so dull-witted that they could not see the obvious answer to their struggles, then they did not deserve the former Agent’s help. It was how such matters were handled within the Empire, at least. The more intelligent, the strongest, thrived within the Imperial army, while the slow and weak were left behind. If the senior or more powerful members of the ranks were to assist them, they would become dependent on such help. Complacent— and young Rebels risked becoming so if Kallus were to step in.

He watched as one dropped the crate she had finally managed to lift above her knees; the girl kicked the crate and let out a noise of frustration. The others, witnessing their comrade’s surrender, behaved similarly.

He bit the bottom of his lip, debating with himself. The teenagers did not need help, they were arguably better off without it. However, if he did not help them, then it would mean more manual labor for himself and Garazeb.

But more than that, Alexsandr was no longer in a typical Imperial circumstance, and he could recall on more than one occasion being helped when he truly had not deserved it as well…

Kallus sighed, disgusted with himself at having finally come to a decision. He turned back to face the youths, grunting and shifting the box in his grip to better carry its weight. His palms had grown sweaty during his internal dilemma and it had begun to slip from his grip. The Rebel soldiers watched him, their anger quickly changing targets from the crates to the man who made lifting them look easy. Sweat dripped off of red faces, their cheeks were puffed from breathing hard, and he could see that at least one of them was near tears.

Disapproving as he was of their resignation, Kallus could at least understand it. Even the most inconsequential of tasks could break a young warrior’s spirit, if they found themselves unable to perform it. Failing at the small tasks meant one was unreliable and could not be trusted with the larger ones, a mentality that was drilled into the heads of every cadet in the Imperial Academy. The Rebels doing the same to their own new recruits was unsurprising – some military teachings universal.

The youths watched him through narrowed eyes, resentful of a man they did not know, in pajamas, and who had made no secret his disdain for them. They waited for either a reprimand for their laziness or a jibe about their weakness. And much as Kallus may have wanted to do both , neither came.

 “Did he ever say you had to pick them up, _alone?_ ” Kallus sneered at them, as rather than insult their work ethic or strength, he would mock their _intelligence_. Or lack thereof.

Not one of the children answered him, which was typical of Rebel brats. Where in the galaxy the Rebels picked up such useless youths, Kallus could only wonder. Though not too deeply;  he scarcely cared to know the youths’ backstories, though if the words juvenile and detention were mentioned more than once, he would hardly be shocked.

He _tsked,_ and would have snapped is fingers at them if his hands were not currently occupied.

“Two to a crate, or three, if need be—and be quick about it, you’ve already wasted enough time as it is.” After a brief pause, he added. “You do not prove your strength by trying to lift them alone, but your weakness.” He turned away from them then, as his own crate was finally beginning to feel heavy in his arms.

The little lesson he had tacked on in the end was not something the Imperial would have given to one of his own junior enlisted, but the young Rebels could not be trusted to recognize their own faults. If Kallus had not pointed out the obvious, they would have never figured it out.

He walked to the back of the ship, a deep frown on his face as he contemplated his own uncharacteristic behavior. He came to a halt, though, when he saw Orrelios talking to a fellow Rebel, one the former Agent had been dreading speaking to.

Captain Syndulla.

She was well known for her hatred of Imperials and without his broken leg, there was nothing left to shield Kallus from her ire. Over-protective, professional (for a Twi’lek), and a respectable adversary in the air—Syndulla’s reputation preceded her within the Empire.

Though the inferior R2 model stationed at her feet certainly did not reflect the Rebel Captain’s commanding presence in the _least_. It was the same one Kallus had easily overpowered and reprogrammed during his botched escape attempt.

Neither Captain paid attention to the former Agent as he approached, too deep into their own conversation to notice the man coming up behind them. Sloppy form, that, one should always be aware of their surroundings. The Lasat’s ears twitched and Kallus remembered how sharp the alien’s hearing was. The Rebels were aware of his presence; they simply did not _acknowledge_ it.

He maneuvered around them, deciding that if the Rebel Captains wanted to ignore him that was their prerogative. Walking into the aft of the ship, he sat the crate down next to the only two in the loading area, the ones Orrelios had no doubt placed there. He wiped his hands off on his loose pants then exited the ship, eyes straying back to the two Rebel Captains.

Syndulla caught his gaze and waved a green hand at him, smiling as she did so. A direct opposite of the expression her compatriot wore as Kallus approached the aliens. The Lasat’s arms were crossed over his broad chest and he was yet again glowering at the human for some unknown reason.

Captain Syndulla waited until he stood directly beside the outdated R2 model before speaking.

“Kallus, this is R2-T1K— Tink.”

“ _Tink?_ ” He parroted.

“Tink,” she responded, smile never wavering.

Before he could once again ask after the R2 unit’s ridiculous name, which he would _not_ be using, Garazeb interrupted him, tapping the black, chipped droid on the helm with a sharp claw.

“Ey, Kallus—what do you think of us using old droids?”

Syndulla looked from the Lasat to the human, confusion clear on her narrow face. Had the ex-Agent any less self-control, he would have mirrored the look.

Kallus swallowed, dubious of the aim with such a query. Garezeb gave the Twi’lek a look as if to say _watch this,_ which only further unsettled him. Still, Orrelios had asked him a question, and the former Agent would do his best to answer it. Hopefully whatever he said would be enough to place him back into the Lasat’s good graces.

“While I understand the Rebellion is short on funding… Obsolete mechanoids ought to be dismantled so that their parts may be repurposed. In this way, even the most antiquated droid can be useful.”

Garazeb pointed a sharp digit at him, incensed. “There, you see what I’m talkin’ about?” He placed a palm over his forehead muttering. “Karabast, I can’t do this.”

Kallus jerked back, startled.

“Watch him for me, will ya? I don’t think I can stand to hear him anymore, sounds too much like a damn _Imperial_.”

_Well, I **am** an Imperial_, is what Kallus wanted to reply, however a look from Captain Syndulla silenced him.

“Alright, Zeb,” she agreed. “Why don’t you go ahead and take the rest of the day off, you haven’t slept since we landed.”

Garazeb had not slept? _Two days_ had passed since the _Ghost_ landed on Yavin IV. Kallus huffed through his nose. It was no wonder the Captain was so irritable.

 Kallus allowed his incredulity to be known. “What in the _stars_ possessed you to stay awake for so long? You—”

Orrelios shoved past the human before he could finish speaking, robbing the Imperial of the words he had been about to say. His mouth hanging open uselessly as the larger man stomped off.

Once the Lasat was well out of earshot, Syndulla rounded on him.

“Listen, I don’t have time to watch you. Not that I don’t want to,” she hastily added. “It’s just that new base, new ships, there’s a lot I need to do. That’s why…” Her eyes darted around, searching for something behind him. A smile lit up her admittedly pretty face—though as a Twi’lek, it was to be expected—as she apparently found whatever it was she had been looking for.

“… Tink will be in charge of watching you.”

“ _Tink?_ ” He exclaimed, voice rising in pitch.

“Yes, Tink,” she addressed the droid directly then. “I can rely on you to keep an eye on this guy for me, can’t I?” Her vocals became sweeter than Kallus had ever heard them.

The little nuisance whistled a _yes ma’am_ , somehow managing to make binary sound sheepish.

Kallus let out a disgusted noise stemming from the back of his throat. “From Orrelios to you, and now to a droid. Is my presence here really that little of a concern to you people?”

“Should it be?” Syndulla challenged, eyes sharp.

“… No,” he conceded.

Kallus was more peeved that he had been abandoned by Garazeb than that it had been to the care of an astromech. The alien liked to think himself the reason for the ex-Agent’s treason against the Empire. The least Orrelios could do is take some semblance of responsibility for it. He played a part in luring an Imperial away from his Empire; what exactly had the Lasat been expecting of Kallus once he reached the Rebellion?

Warm hugs and fuzzy feelings?

Ignoring R2-T1K completely, he asked. “Before, you and Captain Orrelios were discussing… something. What was it?”

There was not a doubt in Kallus’ mind they had been talking about him, but he needed to hear it from Syndulla. Mmore importantly, he needed to know what it was about him other than his overall _Imperialness_ that had set Garazeb off.

“He doesn’t mean anything by it, he respects you joining our cause, really, it’s just that…” The woman trailed off, searching for words, before continuing. “… It’s hard for him, being around you.”

Ah, so that was the crux of the issue. Really, Kallus should have expected as much. It was not the fact that he was an Imperial that bothered the Lasat, but that he was—had been, a particularly monstrous one.

“You understand, right?” She asked.

“Perfectly,” he clipped.

Something akin to sympathy shone in Syndulla’s bright green eyes and Kallus glared in their direction. He was a monster, he knew that, but for a time, no matter how short-lived, he had hoped Orrelios was willing to look beyond his past actions to see what he was currently.

Even if Kallus himself did not know what that was.

What he did know, however, was that he would not suffer _pity_ from a _Twi’lek._

Said Twi’lek continued speaking as though the Imperial was not glaring poison tipped daggers in her direction.

“He appreciates what you did for us, really, he just…” She sighed, apparently unsatisfied with her own assurances. “… He just needs time.”

“… I see.” He said coolly.

The Captain looked as though she wanted to say more, but Kallus turned his back to her. Whatever sympathies or assurances the alien wanted to offer, the Imperial would have none of it. 

“I will continue here, as ordered, and you— did you not say you were busy?”

His eyes followed the young Rebels as they moved slowly about, back and forth from the aft of the ship to the stacked cargo they were loading it with. Working together just as Kallus had suggested they do. He watched them move impassively, focusing more on forcing down a lump of some unknown emotion that wanted to crawl up his throat. It felt thick, heavy, and he nearly choked on it.

“Watch after him, Tink.” Syndulla ordered softly, before finally leaving the former Agent to his assigned task.

Kallus did not spare her a thought as she left, instead he chose to single-mindedly focus on the manual labor he had been assigned to. He marched quickly to the stacked cargo, ignoring the youths. The children used teamwork to move faster than they had before, but progress was still being accomplished arduously slowly. He brushed passed a pair of them and did not bother even looking once in the youths’ direction, even as he felt their eyes bore holes into the back of his head.

He reached the stack of crates and stretched for the one stacked highest, knowing it would be easier for the shorter humans to pull from the bottom rather than the top. If he did not balance the stack out, there was a possibility it would fall, which could result in damaged crate or cargo, both of which meant more work for the ex-Agent. Work he was not at _all_ in the mood for.

Nothing could sour a person’s day more than a blatant reminder of just how _hated_ they were.

“Pick up the pace, will you? Unless you want to be here all day.” He snapped at the staring children, meaning it as more a threat than a question.

He heard rather than saw their reaction to his words, several sharp intakes of breath followed by hastily shuffled feet. Good, it would seem the brats had finally found their work ethic.

They continued their work, Kallus silent while the children muttered and joked amongst themselves, for at least two more hours. The task would have been completed sooner had one boy not decided he had suddenly developed muscles he did not have and once again tried to lift a crate by himself. Predictably, the nuisance dropped it and the corner which it had fallen on split open, spilling its contents all over the floor. Kallus had growled and reprimanded the youth for his idiocy before moving to assist him with the cleanup, as the imbecilic boy could clearly not be expected to do so in a timely manner without the former Agent holding his grubby little hand.

Cleaning the mess had taken a full twenty minutes and then yet another fifteen had been needed to place the spilled contents into a new crate. Had the child not done exactly as Kallus had told him not to, they would have completed their task an entire thirty-five minutes earlier.

Which only lent credence to the fact that Kallus absolutely _despised_ children.

He did not know what time they had finished loading the ship, as any means of telling the hour had been stripped of him along with the rest of his belongings. But he would hypothesize the time to be somewhere between nine and ten in the morning. It was not yet an acceptable time to take lunch, and the Imperial still did not know what answer he would give to Mon Mothma.

So, it was still early in the day and with his only assigned task complete, Kallus did not know what else to do with his time. Free time was a luxury many ICB Agents rarely partook in. He had not had time to himself outside of a work role parameter in a very long time. Being in an unfamiliar location did not help matters either. Though, perhaps Captain Syndulla had thought through leaving the former Agent with a droid more than Kallus had originally assumed? She might have left the astromech with orders with where to take the Imperial next.

The outdated mechanism had seated itself in a dark corner to watch the humans work, silent save for the occasional whistle of encouragement in Kallus’ direction. Before he could address it, however, the young boy who had dropped the crate while they were working approached him. The child looked to be no more than thirteen, fourteen at most. His hair was just a tad too long, the black locks falling into the lad’s slanted dark-brown eyes and forcing him to brush them away. Hm, Mandalorian, perhaps?

“Thanks fer the help, sir, we really woulda been here all day if not fer ya.”

What a reprehensible accent—so no, not Mandalorian.

“You’re… welcome.” He hedged, unsure of the Rebel’s intentions.

“Gotta question fer ya, Mister, been meanin’ to ask since we first saw ya, really.” The youth’s smile widened and his eyes crinkled at their corners.

Ah, so that was why the boy had approached Kallus: information.

“So, why the pajamas?” The boy asked teasingly.

His eyes widened before narrowing and his lips curled downward, the Imperial thoroughly unamused by the child’s cheek. “Do you not have somewhere else to be?”

A light sparked in his young eyes and Kallus withheld a sigh of relief.

“Yer right! Cap’in said she wanted us to report in when we got done.”

He repressed a shudder at the horrible youth’s syntax. Had the little cretin not even received the basics of an education?

They all rushed off, finally leaving Kallus alone...well, mostly alone. The R2 unit who had been waiting quietly off to the side while Kallus worked beeped at him, as if to ask _what next?_

Meaning no, Syndulla had not given the droid instructions on what to do or where to take the Imperial once the task was completed. How typical of a Rebel, their inability to plan ahead was one of the many reasons they were losing the war they had started with the Empire.

Kallus gripped his chin between his forefinger and thumb, unsure of what to do next. Orrelios had been supposed to give him a tour of the base, show him who all he would be working with should he choose to remain with the Rebellion. Thus far the Imperial had only met bratty children and droids. Hardly compelling reasons for him to stay. Sighing, he straightened and clasped his hands behind his back.

“Let us take a walk then, though you are welcome to remain here.” He side-eyed the astromech, knowing it would not disobey Captain Syndulla’s order, wishing it would.

The astromech whirred and beeped its assurances that it would not leave Kallus alone. As though the little machine were doing him a _favor_ by traveling alongside him. The Imperial rolled his eyes, deciding to ignore the R2 unit for the time being. Unless the robot could prove itself useful, as it had aboard the stolen Rebel ship, he had no need of it, outdated model that it was.

He scanned his eyes along the hangar bay, searching for the path he and Orrelios had taken, for Kallus had no intention of roaming around a base full of hostile Rebels in nothing but nightwear. The Rebels may have stripped the former Agent of his belongings, but his pride remained intact, and as the only item of meaning the Imperial still possessed, he would cling to it like a drowning man, cast out into rough waters and clinging to a single piece of floating driftwood. Though, unlike a drowning man, Kallus would not sputter, nor show how out of depth he was with his current situation. His chin would remain raised, posture immaculate, and expression purposefully neutral.

He had conceded enough to their ornery whims for one day. The ex-Agent could continue with his repentance come the morrow.

As he started forward, he kept his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes forward; a proper Imperial’s march. Cold stares and loud whispers trailed after Kallus as he moved, just as the astromech did. He paid no attention to either, intent on maintaining his dignity as he expertly maneuvered around the rapidly crowding hangar bay. The machine assigned to him made over eager attempts at conversation, and he staunchly ignored the prying robot. Perhaps Captain Syndulla had ordered the R2 unit to needle Kallus for information? To what purpose, he did not know, as he could scarcely tell what use the Rebels would make of knowing what the former Agent’s favorite color was.

His goal was to leave the hangar bay the same way he had entered it, then to make his way back to the temple he and Garazeb had exited from, find the room he had originally woken up in, and see if there was not something more proper for him to wear. If not, he could simply wait out the day in the room’s relative seclusion, and when the time came to give Mon Mothma his answer, the Imperial would simply state that he needed more time to decide. One’s future tended to take more than a few hours’ worth of deliberation, after all. No mention of Captain Orrelios abandoning his post would be mentioned, of course; Kallus had already caused the man a planet’s worth of grief. Adding a reprimand from the Commander to the vast pile was out of the question.

No Rebel stopped him as he walked, for which Kallus was grateful. He was in no mood to entertain their easily offended sensibilities. Should one of them approach the Imperial in his current state of mind, he might very well accidentally make one of them _cry_ , as apparently anything the former Agent said could be seen as a denunciation against their entire Rebellion, enough to make weathered veteran Captains abandon their duties and storm off in self-righteous indignation.

The thought alone had Kallus seething. Of all the Rebels on Yavin IV, he had never expected _Garazeb Orrelios_ to be _sensitive._

Kallus glared at the ground, clenching his fist.

They had finally reached the end of the hangar. He lifted his head, once again adopting a look of practiced indifference. As he stepped out onto the grass, he noted with some relief that its blades had dried. His pants legs and feet would not once again be soaked by dew and make walking in the oversized pants more difficult than it already was. His relief quickly vanished, however, as Kallus had not gone five feet before realizing there was a worse discomfort than mere dampness. His ankles _itched._ The grass rubbed against his bare feet and up into the pants, creating an uncomfortable rubbing sensation that burned in a tingling way. The sensation almost had him stopping to scratch. Almost.

Kallus had spent enough years in the military to know how to control even the most base human instincts where irritation was involved. Holding in a sneeze while in the presence of superiors, refraining from bending his knees while held at attention for long stretches of time, and suppressing the urge to scratch when an itch arose—disciplines any self-respecting military man mastered before reaching even his first duty station. And while the annoyance did not wear on his resolve to appear unfettered before the Rebels, it did wear on his patience.

He increased the speed of his gait, hissing under his breath as he stepped on a particularly sharp rock imbedded in the ground.

The droid beeped out a concerned _are you all right?_

Kallus responded tersely, “Yes.”

The subject thusly dropped, the Imperial continued as though the sole of his left foot was _not_ throbbing painfully.

They were nearly across the field when out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a young Mandalorian and an even younger Lothalian just outside the expanse of trees that surrounded the base. Sabine Wren and Ezra Bridger. Wren continued to speak to her Padawan friend, unaware of the Imperial’s observations. Bridger was not so oblivious, likely alerted by the force, as his sharp eyes slid from the female to look directly into Kallus’ own hazel depths. A look of mutual dislike was shared, a split-second interaction before they were both turning back to what had previously held their attention.

He and the droid continued their brisk pace, and within less than five minutes, they had reached the temple’s entrance. There was no handle on the door, which frankly surprised the former Agent. The Rebels’ technology was so out-of-date, their security so lax, he had expected to find the door wide open with classified materials strewn about the corridor. Rather than mystify at the Rebels’ use of a practical security measure, he searched along the door’s side for its security panel. Finding it, he frowned. It required a key code, one whose combination Kallus had no knowledge of.

“Droid, open the door,” he commanded.

When there was no immediate response, Kallus looked down to see what was preoccupying the ugly little thing. It was swiveling its helm from left to right, as though debating whether or not to comply with the Imperial’s order. Kallus had no time for such malfunctions.

Heat settled on the back of Kallus’ head, its source not originating from the sun; he was being watched. It did not take a smart man to figure out by whom.

“Droid, open the door,” he ordered, harsher than before.

It beeped a sheepish reprimand for Kallus to ask _nicely._ His eyes widened before narrowing into angry slits _._ Why, that little _—_

“Open the door… _please_.” Kallus spoke through clenched teeth, furious at having no choice but to lower himself into pleading with a _machine_ of all things— an outdated, chipped, waste of spare parts— for compliance.

It beeped happily at the use of the intransitive verb and Kallus could think of several less polite ones he would like to use against the astromech. He refrained, if only just barely, as the R2 unit could still prove useful should any other doors need opening.

The door slid open and Kallus, paying no heed to the droid, walked briskly through it, the irritation dancing along his ankles only worsening the longer he ignored it, and he was _itching_ to finally reach solitude to address the problem. The thought that he might be allergic to the vegetation briefly crossed the Imperial’s mind, but he dismissed it. It had simply been some time since his bare skin had come into contact with anything _organic._

His feet padded softly along the corridor’s cold metallic floor; the less noise he made the less likely he was to draw the attention of any wayward Rebels inhabiting the temple. The droid trailing behind him, however, did not seem to be onboard with Kallus’ plan. One of its wheels squeaked loudly, the grating sound bouncing off the passageway’s walls and causing Kallus to crinkle his nostrils in aggravation.

The Imperial increased his pace, counting the shut doors as he passed them, grateful that he had possessed enough hindsight to do so as Orrelios had led him through the corridor. He knew the exact number before they would reach the room he had awoken in.

They passed the interview room and Kallus barely spared it a glance before diverting his attention away from it, determined to reach the his destination before that accursed droid’s incessant squeaking drove him mad.

Soon they had reached the correct door and the ex-Agent’s eyes sought out its opening mechanism. Yet another keypad. He turned down to face the R2 unit, his face morphing into an image of forced cheer that hurt the edges of his cheeks as he asked with faux-politeness.

“Would you be so kind as to open the door?”

It whistled in delight at the Imperial’s sudden change of attitude, obnoxiously happy that Kallus was finally being _nice._ He bit the inside of his cheek to keep his smile from dropping, his eyes nearly closed with how tightly he was squinting them. Kallus would dismantle the damn thing, later, after he assured himself it was no longer needed.

The door opened and Kallus did not hesitate to walk through it. He sat himself ungraciously on the bed, but held persisted in his self-restraint just long enough for the droid to follow after him and shut the door. Once the door was closed, Kallus wasted no time crossing his leg in a way that had his left ankle resting atop his right knee. He lifted the thin pants fabric and began to scratch, his blunt, perfectly trimmed nails leaving angry red lines in their wake.

Dirt gathered underneath his nails and the Imperial’s frown deepened. So focused as he had been on returning to the room unaccosted, he had failed to take into account how positively _filthy_ he had become. His blond locks had become greasy, his skin coated in a sticky thin layer of dried sweat, and the clothes he wore were stained where the worst of the sweat had gathered. Then there were his pants to consider, the bottoms were stained with grass and the soles of his bare feet had turned a dark, ashy gray and stay pebbles and bits of grass clung to them.

Kallus ceased his scratching and wrapped a hand around his ankle, then placed his other hand atop it, squeezing as he came to a conclusion. He was in _desperate_ need of shower. If only he still possessed the energy to take one.

His head hung low as the day’s events caught up with him and Kallus closed his eyes, focusing on keeping his breathing steady. Even when the mask removed from him, he still felt the weight of Fulcrum pressing down on him. His breaths increased as his thoughts began to unravel.

The Rebels really were not so different from the Empire. They possessed slightly stronger morals and were more open with their affection for one another, but there was still judgment, still secrets and sabotage, civilian casualties and less than honorable guerrilla warfare tactics.

Kallus released a shuddering breath. Maker, what was he _doing_ here?

He could claim to be helping the Rebels because it was the right thing to do, but both Garazeb and Mon Mothma had been right. Since when had Kallus ever done the _right thing?_ His entire life could be summarized by instances of brutal cruelty toward innocents and even harsher treatment of those he deemed guilty, all in the pursuit of personal gain and covered by a thin veil of justice.

Orrelios had lifted that veil on Bahryn, exposing Kallus to a truth he had long since denied.

He was a horrible human being and what lay within him dirtied the Rebels’ base more than his outward, grubby appearance ever could.

Something hard pressed against Kallus’ bent knee and his eyes snapped open, immediately searching out whatever had dared to touch him.

It was the droid. The astromech’s helm was resting against Kallus’ knee and its optic was trained on the Imperial’s head. It pulled its cylindrical helm back only to push it back against him, adding more pressure as it did so.

A soft smile graced the ex-Agent’s haggard face, and as there were no eyes around to witness it, the wide, scratched optical sensor of the R2 unit decidedly not counting, he did not force it back. It beeped dolefully at him, and Kallus gave breathless chuckle. If the Imperial did not know any better, he would have thought the machine was trying to comfort him.

“I am fine, simply in need of a shower, my current state is… unpleasant.” He assured it, smile turning self-depreciative. His words were an understatement, but Kallus was hardly about to confess his innermost feelings to a droid, unintentionally considerate as it may have been to said feelings.

No, he was not so far gone as to cloy at a machine for unnecessary emotional support. Kallus was experiencing a momentary lapse in control, nothing more. But, perhaps he would waylay his plans to dismantle the R2 unit, as it had proven itself more than useful enough to keep around, for the time being.

Sighing, he placed his left foot back on the floor, then pressed his palms flat on the mattress and pushed himself off it.

“I may be awhile.”

He did, after all, have the time to spare.

“Do feel free to leave at any time if you get tired of waiting for me.”

Kallus’ attempt to be dismissive somehow came out teasing. His brows creased, and the Imperial contemplated his own bizarre behavior. Speaking courtly to a _droid_ of all mechanisms. Truly, he must be more out of his wits than previously thought. Its behavior toward him earlier had most likely been a pre-programmed response to specific stress readings in humans. It certainly did not _care_ about Kallus and he certainly did not feel gratitude toward a machine for pulling him from his own self-loathing.

He walked forward and palmed the refresher door open, decidedly ignoring the upbeat binary that called after him to _take his time._

Once inside the refresher with the door firmly closed behind him, Kallus did something he had been avoiding since he had first noticed the darkening stains under his pits— he lifted the oversized shirt by the collar, tilted his head forward, and sniffed.

Repugnant.

His nostrils flared, and Kallus firmed his grip over the fabric, pulling it over his head. The ever-present odor of Lasat was less overbearing within the confines of the refresher and Kallus was made painfully aware of how badly he reeked. The Imperial did not even want to test how rancid the scent underneath his loose-fitting trousers was. Pulling their waste wide and stepping out of the pajama bottoms, Kallus pursed his lips as he was made very much aware of his own lack of underclothes.

To have been walking amongst the Rebels without breeches—how indecent.

He splayed the clothes out along the floor so that when he stepped out of the shower, his wet frame would not soak the floor. The shower was an older model, with a tile base and wide glass pane to keep the water from spreading to the rest of the refresher. Sliding open the glass door, he eyed the controls, for once grateful to the Rebels’ lack of modern equipment. A simple knob was all that controlled the shower; left for warm water, right for cold. He turned the knob left before stepping in, the water hissing to life and the gentle patter of droplets against tile and skin filled the room.

A contented sigh left him as the dirt and grime of the day was slowly washed from him.

Rather than begin the process of cleaning himself, Kallus stood still underneath the stream of water, placing both hands against the wall in front of him and leaned forward. Tension along with the water gradually slid off his tight muscles and dripped to the shower’s bottom, swirling down its drain. Wet hair hung limply in front of the Imperial’s face, and hazel-brown eyes closed.

He stood underneath the showerhead’s jets for what felt like ten minutes before finally moving, pushing himself away from the wall and opening his eyes. Kallus squinted as wet droplets splashed against his face. His pinched eyes searched out something to wash his hair and body with, huffing in disappointment when all he found was a single bottle of what looked to be shampoo sitting atop a small shelf. White with a red cap, it was covered with alien words that appeared distinctly Wookie in nature. Hardly meant for human use, but left with no other options, Kallus grabbed the bottle, clipped open the cap, and squeezed a minuscule amount out onto his hand. The clear glob of slime that poured out was thick, too much and the Imperial would have had to spend another ten minutes on purely rinsing it out of his hair.

With such a possibility looming over him, he decided to start washing his face and to leave his hair for last. He scrubbed slowly, meticulously, going from his face to his neck, rubbing the soap gently over his chest and the thin layer of hair that coated it. He slid his hand from his chest to his pits, rubbing at the coarse hair underneath them, then lower, scrubbing his abdomen and moving quickly over his nether regions. Once he reached his feet, Kallus’ gentle ministrations turned hard. He did not want a trace of dirt to remain, even going so far as to use his nails to scrape along the blackened soles. The water dripping off him turned gray as he cleaned.

Finally finished with his body, Kallus rinsed the suds from his hands and picked the bottle back up, squeezing even less than before onto his hand. He then proceeded to wash his hair, scratching his nails along his scalp and pulling away any stray hairs that had shed. Before rinsing the shampoo out of his hair, he massaged it into his sideburns, careful not to distort their shape too much.

He then rinsed the shampoo off his body and out of his hair, finally feeling clean for the first time in days. His hand hovered over the shower handle. Shower complete, he knew he should leave it. He was wasting the Rebels’ water and his own time.

Relenting to reason, he turned the water off and slid the glass door open. Cool air blew against his steaming body, causing his nipples to harden. Kallus shivered, grabbing a towel hanging off a rack and began drying off, feeling marginally better than he had before he had showered, having finally done something not ordered of him nor under the watchful gaze of a Rebel acting as a bolster to Kallus’ confidence he had not expected.

He placed the towel down on the sink, twisting his lips as he saw how fogged the mirror above it had become. His expression evened out, however, when he spotted a brush on the thin layer of flat metal that connected the sink to the wall. The handle was a dark purple, its bristles thin and spread out, with small spheres rounding out the tips. The brush looked more suitable for a lothal-cat than a proper head of hair, but Kallus supposed it would have to do. It would do a better job of combing golden-brown locks than his fingers had, at least.

Wiping the fogged mirror off with the towel, he brushed his hair back as best he could without jell to aid in its placement. Once satisfied that he could do nothing more to slick it back, he placed the brush back into the medicine cabinet. Picking the towel up off the sink, he wrapped it around his waist just below his naval, gripping it tightly in a closed fist.

Opening the door, Kallus’ jaw dropped, shock wracking through his body, causing him to very nearly drop his towel.

The room was a mess, clothes and clutter littering the floor. Drawers were partially open with cloth hanging over their edges. The only thing in the room that appeared the same as it was when Kallus had entered the refresher, was the berth and the hideous lamp atop bedside table. Though, the bed had not remained entirely unscathed from whatever destruction had been wrought. Clothes were folded neatly on top of the comforter, in complete juxtaposition to the chaotic nature of the rest of the room.

He turned sharply to the R2 unit which had been staring at the Imperial since he first stepped out of the refresher.

“Who was here?”

It answered him with a whistle.

“ _Captain Orrelios?_ ” He parroted back.

The Lasat had been the one toe trash the room, but for what purpose? A fit of rage, as the more primitive species were prone to? Or had he been searching for something? Best to query the droid than ask internal questions he had no way of answering.

“What did the Captain do while he was in the room?”

The R2 unit spun its helm and drove in tight circles as it animatedly began telling him exactly what the Rebel had done while Kallus was in the shower.

Garazeb had gently placed a set of clothes on the bed and a pair of boots on the floor before turning a tearing through the room, searching for something hidden in the drawers. The alien had grumbled in his native language, growling in a way that had frightened the astromech. After eventually finding what he had been looking for, a dark brown glass bottle, corked and filled with a mystery liquid, he had then proceeded to storm out of the room. But not before telling R2-T1K to make sure Kallus ate.

All the while the droid had been talking, a slow, boyish smile spread across Kallus’ face.

He sat unceremoniously on the bed, hanging his head low to hide his blithe expression. The comforter dampened underneath him, but he could hardly find it in himself to care. He lifted a limp hand and ran it through his slicked back hair, undoing his previous work.

Even while furious with the Imperial, Orrelios had still taken Kallus’ needs into consideration. Clothes that looked as though they would fit him properly, a pair of shoes, both more than the ex-Agent had been expecting and far more than he deserved. But then there had been that small, last act of compassion, an added request to ensure Alexsandr took care of himself. Thinking of the Lasat asking after Kallus’ well-being set his stomach a flutter in an unfamiliar, yet not whole fully unpleasant way.

Perhaps, he thought for a moment, this was what it felt like to have a friend.

A light chuckle escaped him at the utterly juvenile idea, and Kallus reluctantly pushed it from his mind. He and Garazeb were not friends, much as Kallus might have wished they were. No, Orrelios was simply a good man with a good heart, better than the Imperial could ever be. The man’s charitable act had nothing to do with who _Alexsandr_ was, but with the Lasat’s own philanthropic character. Still, it had been a nice thought, however brief he had entertained it.

Straightening his posture, he reached for the clothes on the bed: a plain brown tee, a light khaki pair of pants with several pockets, a belt, socks, and a jacket. Still no small-clothes, but Kallus was not about to complain. Dressing himself slowly, he slid the shirt over his head first, then stood, allowing the towel drop from his hips.

The astromech shrieked and spun away from the exposed human.

Kallus scoffed in the face of its outrage. It would seem even Rebel droids were overly sensitive.

After slipping the pants on and fastening them, he sat back on the bed and pulled the socks on. Yavin IV was too humid a moon for him to wear the jacket, but Kallus appreciated it all the same. Next would be for him to put the belt and boots on. He hesitated however as yet another childish thought assaulted his mind.

A few hours remained before the period for lunch would be well past, enough time for him to take a short nap, something Kallus could not recall having done in many, many years. But he could also not recall ever having been in a former adversary’s base waiting for night to fall before giving an answer as to whether or not he would join them. If he were to face the former councilor later in the day, he would do well to be rested. Dealing with politicians always left Kallus feeling a special kind of tired.

Without looking at the droid, he commanded it.

“Wake me in three hours.”

R2-T1K did not respond to the order, the ornery machine likely still angry with the Imperial for flashing it. No matter, he did not need hear the mechanoid acknowledge his order to know it would be followed.

Laying his head down onto the pillow at the head of the bed, Kallus nonchalantly lifted the comforter and slipped underneath it, for once not worrying about the mess his hair would no doubt be in when he awoke. He rested his arms over the top of the comforter, clasping his hands atop his covered abdomen. His breathing slowed, and his eyes gently shuttered. Not long after, he fell into a light, on and off again slumber.

 

* * *

 

Kallus came to consciousness with very little fanfare. His eyes slowly blinked open and he rolled over onto his right side, searching for R2-T1K through bleary vision.

“What time is it?” He murmured, rubbing his head against the sheets as the droid responded in binary.

He had dozed longer than intended and now the time was too late for lunch, yet still too early for dinner.

“You did not wake me,” he accused.

The astromech beeped something out about the human looking too _peaceful_ disturb. Kallus rolled his eyes. The sun had not yet begun to set, but it would within the hour and he was not sure at exactly what time Mothma expected the Imperial to report in with his answer. He huffed, not bothering to hide his displeasure with the R2 unit.

“Nice as the rest was, I would have preferred to eat.”

R2-T1K whirred that he still could.

He quirked a brow at the machine. “Do the Rebels keep irregular galley hours, then?”

It whistled and beeped that the cafeteria did not close until twenty-hundred. A late hour for a galley; Kallus did not envy the Rebels’ cooks.

“Very well, then.”

He sat up, stretching his arms up over his head before drawing the comforter off him and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He bent down to pull the boots on and once they were laced, he stood and reached for the belt one the end of the berth, pushing it through the belt loops with a speed that could have only come from practice.

“Lead the way.”

The R2 unit beeped at him merrily and spun toward the door. They exited the room, not passing a single Rebel as they walked toward the galley. Five minutes passed before the buzz of multiple voices reached the Imperial’s ears. The galley was close. Taking a deep breath, Kallus schooled his expression to reflect neutrality. They entered the galley and he paused, scanning the crowd of Rebels for a large, purple alien.

When no sign of the Lasat was found, the former Agent continued forward toward the short line that had gathered where the food was served. Not a word was said as he waited patiently in the line, not even as he reached the front and a tray was handed to him, filled with a mush of food he did not recognize. Nevertheless, Kallus accepted the rations graciously, casually wording his thanks to the weary looking chef.

Leaving the line, he and the droid began trekking across the galley, weaving past Rebels and tables with benches attached to them.

A loud shout drew his attention, and Kallus’ stopped walking, head turning to see a table full of children enthusiastically waving at him. The Imperial gave the youths a forced, obviously fake smile. The children waved harder, unable to tell the difference. Pinching his lips, at the young Rebel’s idiocy, Kallus turned to leave, but before he could, R2-T1K started off in the youths’ direction. Cursing internally, he marched after the droid.

The adult Rebels scattered about the cafeteria cast quick, wary glances in his direction before hastily turning back to their own food and friends. Kallus disregarded their stares, keeping his head held high as he chased after the astromech toward the table full of children.

The youths spread apart as he approached them, making room for the Imperial to sit between them, and to avoid an awkward situation Kallus knew he would have to take the spot offered. He would have preferred a place at the end of the table, but he kept his complaint to himself as he sat on the bench, placing his tray on the table. The children stared at the adult seated among them, waiting for him to speak. Eventually their attention waned as the Imperial silently ate his slop and the youths chatted merrily with each other paying no mind to Kallus as he swiftly finished his food.

That was, until Kallus interrupted them, setting his fork down on the table and asking them a question he had been pondering since first encountering the youths loading cargo.

“Might I inquire— why are you here? You are all young, with potentially long lives ahead of you. Why risk that with the Rebellion?”

A hush fell over the table, the children caught off guard with the Imperial’s question. Several long seconds passed before a child finally spoke up, a mousy girl who looked no more than twelve. Her hair was short, brown, and shaggy; her eyes oval and of a similar muddy brown color. And Kallus could read from her mannerisms that the girl had a confidence problem before she even began speaking.

“My d-dad…” The girl paused, looking to her compatriots for encouragement. They nodded, urging her on. “He used to run a t-tech repair shop back on—.”

“Used to?” Kallus interrupted.

She twisted her lips at his rudeness, but answered his question anyway. “Ye- yeah, the Empire wanted him to move, give up his property for _the g-good of the Empire_ ,” she spat. “Jus’ so they could build some fancy n-new factory over top of it. He said no, ‘course, told them to get the _f-frack_ off his land. And then they um… They arre-rested him. Made some stupid s-s-story up about assaulting an Imperial— he d-didn’t!” Her voice rose in volume, stutter becoming more pronounced.

“H-he just gets loud s-sometime, you know? Working on m-machines so long got his hearing all bad. That Stormtrooper just got p-pissed cause a lowly civilian was talking back.”

Kallus pursed his lips, deciding not to draw attention to the girl’s speech impediment as he probed. “And without your father, you saw nowhere to go but the Rebellion, for revenge?”

She shook her head.

“N-no, I got a place, my Ma’s still free, least free as she can be. We… We were put on some kinda watch list after Pa got t-taken away. We moved in with my aunt aft… after that an’ she raised me b-best she could. Was like she was dead though, the Imp… Imperials mighta only arrested my Pa, but I l-l-lost my mama that day too.” Her voiced wavered with emotion, and Kallus felt the sudden urge to place a hand on the small of her back. He did not, his fist instead curling at his side.

“And so you joined the Rebellion to avenge your family.” Kallus concluded. A typical reason, one he had heard many a time from captured Rebels cursing the Imperial’s way as he _interrogated_ them.

The girl’s frown deepened, and she raised a hand to brush her short brown bangs out of her eyes, clearly frustrated with Kallus’ lack of understanding.

“I-I… no. See, l-l-look, couple years later we were j-just out buying food when some Reb… Rebels came speeding down the s-street. They were on hover bikes, punching Stormtroopers and blowing right past their blo… blockade. One of ‘em was even my age, w-well, my age now.” She corrected.

“Lots of people in the market started ru-ru-runnin’. Troopers ain’t exactly the best sh-shots and civilians getting hurt is kinda expected when… whenever they start f-firin’. But, my Ma, she… she didn’t run. She just s-stood there, watchin’. And it was like…like… ” The girl pursed her lips, thinking.

“… She l-l-looked hopeful. Just for a bit, there was l-life in her eyes that I hadn’t seen since my Pa got t-taken away. And I just… I wanna… I wanna… I want my my Ma t’always be like that. If b-beein’ here’s what it takes for my Mama t’start livin’ again, then this is where I’m g-gonna be.”

A sudden realization had Kallus’ throat running dry.

“You’re from Lothal.”

She blinked. “I, y-yeah, how’d you know?”

He shook his head, intentionally ignoring her question to make a statement of his own, his deep timber voice coming out hoarse.

“Your reason for joining is decidedly naïve.”

The girl stuck her tongue out at him. “Yeah? And who… who asked you, a-anyway?”

Kallus chuckled without humor at the girl’s immature response, a child’s cheek suddenly more tolerable after learning she was one of the many whose lives he had played a part in ruining.

“Fair point,” he conceded. “And what of the rest of you?”

The children shared ambiguous looks, communicating amongst each other in a way Kallus did not understand. When one of them finally spoke, it was the boy he had assisted earlier in the day, the potential Mandalorian.

“We ain’t stupid, ya know? We came inta the world at a bad time. Empire’s takin’ over everythin’, the Galaxy’s gone t’shit, an’ there ain’t much anyone’s doin’ ‘bout it.”

Kallus held back a reprimand for the youth to watch his language.

“S’ept the Rebels,” he continued. “An’ that’s why we wanna help ‘em. The Galaxy’s a bad place t’be right now an’ we… We jus’ wanna leave it better than when we entered it.” The boy’s cheeks tinged pink at the last admission.

The rest of the youths nodded their assent and Kallus swallowed, unable to formulate a response in the wake of such blindingly pure idealism. Those youths, they…they reminded the Imperial of himself, in a way, before he had lost himself to the bitter corruption and destructive ways of the Empire. Winding from a paved path of white justice to one gnarled and overgrown with black briers; soaked crimson with the blood of millions.

Some ten odd years ago, he too had joined an army in the hopes of making the Galaxy a better place. Over a decade had passed since the last time Alexsandr had allowed himself such frivolous thoughts…

In his growing silence, the youths began once again chatting amongst themselves, oblivious to the lone adult’s inner turmoil. They laughed and told jokes, playfully mocking each other in a show of genuine comradery Kallus had not seen since…

Since Garazeb Orrelios had been rescued by the _Ghost_ crew on Bahryn, leaving Agent Kallus standing alone, weathering its freezing temperatures with nothing but a glowing meteorite and his belief in the Empire to keep him warm. Now, former Agent Kallus had neither of those things. But he _could_ —

Warmth bloomed across the Imperial’s chest.

“I need to go,” he announced.

The youths ceased their chatter, turning to look at him simultaneously, confusion clear on their young faces.

“Ah, I…” he paused, suddenly tongue tied as six young Rebels watched him. Waiting for an explanation for his abrupt interruption of their festivities. They were waiting for an explanation Kallus did not have the words to give. His mind was a disorganized mess, vacillating between intense self-loathing and aspirations of redemption. And then there was the burning emotion coursing through his chilled vanes, coaxing the former Agent to act. Quickly, he needed to move before he lost his nerve. Before the heat flickering within him cooled to ash.

“Hey, we got ya.” One of the children waved him off. “Go do whatever it is ya gotta do.”

He smiled, relieved by the youths’ uncanny ability to understand what Kallus himself could not. Pushing the tray of food from him, he twisted to face the astromech standing behind him.

“Droid…” He stood, stepping over the bench and placing his hands on his hips. “… Take me to the Commander.”

Sensing the human’s urgency, the R2 unit did not make a comment on the Imperial’s lack of manners, for which Kallus was thankful. It beeped and whirred, though Kallus paid no mind to its binary words, mind far too focused on his self-assigned task to pay mind to a machine. The droid sped off in the opposite direction they had entered the galley in, and the human followed briskly behind. As he marched, Rebels cut him a wide berth, unsettled by the Imperial’s fierce forward gaze.

Soon they had reached an unfamiliar corridor, populated by only a few individuals walking down it, too focused on their own tasks to notice the ex-Agent walking among them.

The droid stopped before a door that had two guards stationed at its sides. Kallus stepped around of the mechanoid, intent on asking the guards to step aside. He was expected. Though as it turned out, there was no need. Before Kallus could speak, the door slid open and the guards stepped aside, allowing the former ISB Agent access to the Commander’s office without so much as a glimmer of hesitation. He pushed forward, the R2 unit hot on his heels. Once inside he stopped, drawing himself to attention, chest rising and falling rapidly as he breathed. His heart rate had increased significantly during the trek to Mon Mothma’s office.

The woman was seated at a wide desk, stacks of datapads on either side of her. Mothma placed the one she had been holding down onto the wooden desk slowly, before resting her elbows on its hard surface and clasping her hands in front of her face, obscuring her wrinkled mouth from the Imperial’s view. Her steel gray eyes were locked onto Kallus as she leveled with the same intense gaze he had faced within the interview room. When she addressed him, it was with a cool voice, bereft of any emotion.

“So, Alexsander, what have you decided?”

He stared directly into the Commander’s eyes, expression hard set, determined. A spark of Rebellion had been lit within him; Kallus wanted to see if it could catch fire.

He took a deep breath before answering, the corner of his lips turning up in a smirk.

“I’m in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. My Laptop busted. Because of course it did. Saw the new movie, find it to be better than 7. Perhaps on par with 6. In that it had really good elements to it, but also really bad.
> 
> The next chapter will have A LOT more Zeb and Kallus interactions.


	5. Chapter 5

Kallus stepped out of the Rebel Commander’s office feeling… he was not entirely sure. Happy would not be the correct word to use, and Kallus was not sure he could recognize the emotion were he ever to feel it. Relieved, perhaps. The leaden weight of choice had been lifted from the former Agent’s shoulders, allowing him to move more freely with his head held just a little bit higher. Though, something still held Kallus from tipping his chin fully upward, an unknown weight that pressed down on his conscious, anchoring his heart and mind from feeling any of the elation he was due. And he _was_ due: from a botched escape attempt, to certain death, to an interrogation, then finally being forced to associate with children—Kallus had, with the exception of a few particular occasions, never felt so stressed in all his life.

With his acceptance into the Rebel ranks and his time serving the Empire behind him, he _ought_ to be feeling something beyond an obscure sense of trepidation, the origin of which he could not place. Yet the feeling persisted, even as R2-TIK beeped some generic congratulatory remark at him, remark Kallus ignored, too busy analyzing his own mysterious emotions to pay any mind to a machine.

Lingering in the hallway with two unnamed guards staring at him would not do him any good, however, and so pulling himself from his thoughts, Kallus turned sharply from the door. He used facing movements as he marched down the hallway and the guards snapped back to attention as he passed them. Raising an inquisitive brow, Kallus spared a moment to be mildly surprised by their military bearing. From what he had personally observed of the Rebellion, beyond the titles they carried, its members possessed none of the qualities found in a typical army.

Perhaps there was some hope for them yet.

He and the astromech journeyed in silence, a trend Kallus hoped would continue once they reached the room. They made short work of their trek and soon Kallus was coming to a stop in front of an unmarked door, waiting patiently for the mechanoid to roll to his side and key in the door’s controls.

R2-T1K opened the door without a word and Kallus wasted no time stepping inside. However before he could take a single step further a powerful scent invaded his nose, overwhelming his olfactory senses and causing his nostrils to flare. He coughed once before covering his face; the aroma was unmistakable.

_Garazeb Orrelios._

A sudden thought sent a jolt through his body, causing a wave of self-derision to ripple through him as he pieced together the obvious.

“This is Captain Orrelios’ room,” he said aloud to no one.

The droid answered him anyway, whistling an _of course,_ because _of course_ they were in the Lasat’s quarters. All the signs had been as glaringly obvious as its owner’s xenophilic nature. The scent, strange toiletries, that hideous _lamp_ , and the fact that Orrelios had displayed free reign of the room and knowledge of its contents whilst Kallus had showered—The ex-Agent would have smacked himself for his lack of insight were he any less dignified; a mental berating would have to suffice.

So caught up in his own internal dilemmas was he, that Kallus had not been aware of his own vigilance slipping— he had woken up in an unknown room and not _once_ thought of whom it belonged to.

Forcing himself to breathe past the smell, he wondered what other glaringly obvious details regarding the Rebels and their base had he missed throughout the day? He had scanned the hangar bay, taken note of its inhabitants, but he had not detailed its layout, a crucial step when entering an unfamiliar space. The ship he had assisted the children in loading; what were its specs? Beyond the two who had drawn attention to themselves—the slant-eyed boy and the stuttering female—what did the other four youths even look like?

With his body no longer broken and his head no longer concussed, Kallus no longer had an excuse for his non-existent observational skills and overt emotionalism.

Kallus had been lost before, unsure of his place or purpose. He was still unsure of the latter, but that was to be expected when Mon Mothma had withheld what the former Agent’s position with her army was intended to be. After declaring his loyalty to the Rebellion and wish to join its ranks, the Commander had smiled, as though she had known his decision before he had ever uttered a word. She then refrained from commenting further on his new status and ordered him to continue as he had been, at least until she and her Generals could discuss among themselves what his new role would be.

So motivated had he been to begin his new life as a Rebel, Kallus had forgotten one of the few truths he had learned within the Imperial army— _upon beginning any new endeavor, be prepared to hurry up and wait._

He rotated his head slowly from left to right, taking in the state of disarray Orrelios’ room was in. It looked much like Kallus had originally thought the Lasat’s living quarters would look: messy, foul smelling, and with gaudy decorations. But the room had not looked as it did until after the Imperial had enraged the Rebel Captain to the point where he shirked his duties off on a crew mate and disappeared. So very much unlike the dedicated Rebel Kallus had come to know during his years spent hunting the alien— and it was entirely his fault.

How typical, it seemed even when trying to win the alien’s favor, Kallus was unable to do right by Orrelios.

Well then, the former Agent’s first day as an official Rebel could start by fixing the mess he had created, starting with Orrelios’ room, then the man himself. It was possible, Kallus had certainly undertaken more difficult tasks as both an ISB Agent and as Fulcrum. There was some _hope_ for him to still mend his relationship with the alien. That is what the Lasat had told him, after all, to not give up _hope_ so easily. Kallus would clean the Rebel’s room for him, then find the man and apologize for his earlier behavior. And though Kallus was still unsure of what exactly he would be apologizing for, the ex-Agent knew himself to be a good enough liar to pull of the deceit successfully. He would then inform Garazeb of his decision to officially join his cause, thus removing the _Imperialness_ for which the Lasat so seemed to resent him for. Alexsandr could not change the reality of what he was, deep down, but he could change the Lasat’s perception of him. And as Kallus had been told repeatedly during his training to be an ISB Agent, _perception is reality._

So long as the Rebels did not see Kallus as an Imperial anymore, then he was not one. Not where it mattered anyway, in the eyes of Garazeb Orrelios.

Motivation regained, Kallus set himself upon his self-assigned task.

He moved methodically about the room, bending over to grab and gather the haphazardly discarded clothing in his arms. It was all large, wrinkled, and smelled something foul. Folding an alien’s clothing and cleaning his quarters was a task well beneath a man of Kallus’ talents, but he piled the clothing on the berth and began doing so anyway, snorting when R2-T1K rolled next to him with a pair of what he assumed to be Garazeb’s undergarments: a small black pair of briefs. Surprising, to say the least.

Kallus had thought the man simply wore none at all.

He picked the undergarments up off of the astromech’s helm and folded them first, carefully placing them onto the Lasat’s bed. His movements were robotic after that as Kallus lost himself in the mundane task, with only a mildly annoyed frown tugging on the corners of his lips upon picking up one of Orrelios’ garish one-pieces. However the large alien squeezed himself into such a tight outfit, Kallus had no wish to know. How to fold such an article of clothing, however, would have been beneficial knowledge to have.

As he worked, the astromech made repeated attempts to assist the Imperial while he worked. Its attempts were predictably futile and Kallus grew quickly annoyed with the constant bumps against his legs as the droid obnoxiously asked _what it could do to help._

Kallus quickly shooed it away to a corner, pretending he did not hear its dismayed whines as it went.

Droid dealt with, the Imperial continued methodically about his task, though he was only able to stave off his inner doubts for so long. He was only halfway complete with his undertaking when thoughts of his own recent behavior and mistakes began creep into his mind. Kallus tried staving them off, but it was difficult, with nothing but the simple folding of cloth to distract him. His mental barriers had been whittled and broken down the same as his body had been under Admiral Thrawn’s destructive ministrations. The only difference being that his body was much easier to repair than a decade’s worth of carefully laid bricks that had stood between the ex-Agent’s actions and his emotions.

He angrily finished folding the shirt, setting it down sloppily on top of the others, a frustrated scowl settling on his face as he picked up a pair of short black briefs. He folded them, only just barely resisting the urge to wrinkle the undergarments into a tight ball and toss them; at the droid, preferably.

Was this what becoming a Rebel would entail? Focusing on one’s own petty emotions to the point where the rest of the world’s details blurred? The Rebels Kallus was most familiar with, the crew of the _Ghost_ , were certainly no sticklers for detail, often missing even the most basic tells of a trap or when their little undercover schemes had been found out. Even Orrelios, with those expansive eyes of his, seemed to lack situational awareness, especially during their time together on the Genosian moon. The Lasat had not even noticed it _was_ a moon they were on and not the planet itself.

Though, the alien had mentioned something about _getting a sense of humor_ at the time, so perhaps… a joke then?

Kallus shook his head as he continued to fold, exasperated with the absurdity of it all.

Whatever mysterious spell had gripped his mind would need to be broken before he could make himself of use to the Rebellion. His skills lied in subterfuge and manipulation, and a penchant for setting traps. He needed his mind sharp for that, not lost in a mist of his own unfamiliar emotions and a haze of uncertainty. And with his body no longer broken, head no longer concussed, Kallus no longer had an excuse for his overt emotionalism.

Even during his youth, Kallus had not been an overly emotional one. Outbursts of juvenile anger and general disgust with his own lot in life were the only way his young self had expressed any kind of sentiment. His behavior aboard the stolen Rebel craft and when Garazeb had guided him to the hangar bay reminded the Imperial too much of his teenage self.

He took slow, deep breaths, his nausea over the Lasat’s scent dwindling with every inhale. The alien scent was familiar in a way Kallus could not place. During his time on Lasan, the sky had been ashen and the air thick with smoke. The Lasats’ natural odor was negligible when compared to the scent of their _burning flesh._

A shudder wracked him and Kallus closed his eyes, clenching his hands over a pair of partially folded trousers. He inhaled for two full seconds before stopping and holding the air within his lungs until they burned, releasing it only once the memories receded to the back of his mind.

R2-T1K whirred in worry and Kallus smiled in spite of himself. Meddlesome machine.

The moment passed, and he continued with his chore, allowing his actions to answer the droid’s concerned calls. Grabbing, folding, and placing the laundry with stiff movements, Kallus would use the mundane task of folding the Rebel Captain’s clothing as a means to clear his mind, to reclaim his objectivity and reason, and to remove his mask of neutrality. Not because he intended to be more open with his emotions, but because a mask was not required when it only reflected his true face. Kallus may have abandoned a corrupt cause to join a more righteous one, but that was no reason to leave his professionalism by the wayside.

With his objectivity restored, completing the mere task of cleaning a dirty room was short work and it was not long before he was placing perfectly folded clothes into drawers. And though he did not know which ones they specifically went into, he was certain the room’s owner would appreciate the gesture of good-will all the same.

He placed his hands on his hips and looked about the room, double checking for anything else that might have been moved out of place or needed a slight touching up. Kallus wanted Garazeb’s quarters to be flawless when the man returned to them, as though the Lasat had never been angry enough with the Imperial to wreck his own living space.

Finding nothing out of order, Kallus then turned to the droid, expression purposefully blank.

“Do you know where Captain Orrelios is?”

It swiveled its poorly painted helm in a _no._

He sighed. “I did not think so.”

Searching an unfamiliar base for the alien would be time consuming and could potentially prove to be fruitless. Kallus would have to think of another way to track the Lasat down. A communicator would have been useful, but he knew the Rebels did not quite trust him enough for that. Or at least, he hoped they did not. It would be both an insult to the prior threat he posed and to the Rebellion’s own security measures.

Which, considering how easily he had managed to steal a ship from right under their noses, were practically nonexistent.

“Would you happen to know where Captain Syndulla is?” He asked the droid.

If he could not go directly to Orrelios, he would find him through proxy. Syndulla was the one who had given Garazeb permission to take liberty and was likely to know where the man liked to spend his free time.

Its high pitched binary _yes_ grated on Kallus’ nerves.

“Then take me to her,” he commanded.

The droid’s frame rattled in its excitement at finally being useful and Kallus twisted his lips disdainfully. Perhaps once he found the Twi’lek, he could return her outdated droid. The thing’s faux cheerfulness was incessantly annoying, to the point where Kallus almost felt like he was dealing with a _child._

R2-T1K swiveled its helm once more before turning and abruptly exiting the room, leaving Kallus to march quickly after it. They traveled through the passageways, traversing a similar path to one Kallus had walked before. It seemed the mechanoid was leading him to the hangar bay. Reaching the hangar did not take long at their hurried pace, and soon the two of them found themselves surrounded by Rebel workers.

He would have preferred if none of the workers approached him, as he was not in a conversational mood and though they were now his allies, he had no time for them or their trivial talk. Finding Syndulla, then Garazeb was his one and only priority at the moment. Greeting his new compatriots could wait until the only Rebel who truly mattered no longer cursed the former Agent’s very existence.

Near a work bench close to the building’s left wall, stood Ezra Bridger and Sabine Wren, fiddling with some foreign silver contraption beside a work bench, completely unaware of the Imperial reluctantly approaching them.

He glanced sharply down at the R2 unit and it swiveled its helm from left to right, fretting. _Apparenly_ Captain Syndulla had told the astromech she would be in this exact location at this exact time. Well, apparently _not._

It began apologizing profusely, its whines and beeps coming out louder the closer they came to the two youths.

 “ _Quiet_ ,” he hissed.

They would soon be in hearing distance and he did not want to give the teens any inclination as to how important finding the Rebel Captain was to him.

R2-T1K fell silent as instructed and they continued forward toward the youths. The odds of them knowing Orrelios’ location were just high enough for Kallus to endure their company long enough to ask after it.

The teens were working in silence, and though it was Bridger who noticed his presence first, it was Wren who addressed the Imperial, the boy nudging her with his elbow and alerting her to his arrival. She wiped the grease from her wrench with a cloth and placed the silver device down onto the work bench. She then tuned to him, wrench still in hand, expression curious.

“Ag— _Kallus?_ ”

He nodded once. Yes, that was his name.

“It’s good to see you moving around on your own...” She smiled at him and Kallus was taken aback by the Mandalorian’s friendliness, though he did not outwardly show it. “Was there something you needed?”

Bridger stood silently beside his crewmate, glaring at the ex-Agent, his hostility as palpable in the air as the moon’s humidity. The corner of Kallus’ lips quirked as he met those stormy blue eyes; taunting the boy and drawing out a more vocal reaction to his presence would have been an easy task. He would have to remember the way the boy was looking at him later— so he could plot the different ways he could turn that vitriol around on the Padawan and use it against him.

For Kallus already knew being declared an ally would not be enough to protect him from the force wielder’s wrath.

He turned his attention away from the boy and back to Wren, nodding once in acknowledgment.

“Would you happen to know where Captain Orrelios is?” He inquired.

“You’re looking for Zeb?” Bridger questioned back, eyebrows raised.

Kallus’ lips thinned at the redundant query. If he were not looking for the Captain, why would he be asking for the Lasat’s location?

Rather than point out the Padawan’s stupidity, he replied.

“Yes, do you know where he is?”

The young man’s lips thinned as he apparently thought over his answer. Bridger shrugged, opening his mouth to reply, but the Mandalorian interrupted him.

“I don’t think talking to Zeb right now is a good idea.” Wren looked to the blue haired boy standing next to her before refocusing her gaze on Kallus. “He’s not in a good mood.”

Oh really, Orrelios was not in a good mood? How _ever_ would Kallus have known without Wren’s helpful insight? He looked down his nose at the two teens. The warning given did not deter him, as it had only proven one thing—they did know the Captain’s location. There was no other reason for them to avoiding the question with useless cautions.

“Where is he?” He asked, ignoring the Mandalorian’s counsel.

The girl placed the wrench she had been holding in a pouch on her belt, scowling as she clipped it shut.

“Look, I’ve been where you are now, I know what you’re thinking—and you’re _not_ thinking like a Rebel.”

Kallus scoffed. “You’re an army, not an ideology.”

Her eyes narrowed and the Mandalorian crossed her arms over her chest, leaning forward as she put her notorious attitude on full display. “That’s just it, you see the Rebellion as just another weapon pointed at a problem. But it’s more than that. It’s a family, it’s _hope._ ”

He cocked a brow, disbelief evident in his expression and posture.

“Look,” Wren continued. “If you go to Zeb as you are now, you’re just going to piss him off more. Stars, you’re pissing me off and I don’t have _half_ the temper Zeb does.”

A debatable statement, the demolitionist was a Mandalorian after all. Her kind were prone toward aggressive and violent behavior. Nothing in the young woman’s file, during all the years he had chased her, had ever suggested she was any different from the rest of her people.

Done with her unfounded claims, Kallus crossed his arms over his chest, voice coming out on the hard edge of demanding.

“Where is he?”

He and the Mandalorian matched glares, neither one of them willing to budge on the matter.

“He’s on the roof.” Bridger suddenly piped up, though the youth sounded anything but well intentioned.

“That’s… strangely helpful of you, Bridger.” Kallus responded, warily. His caution was warranted, as the Padawan’s helpful smile deliberately stretched into a vicious smirk.

“Maybe I just want to see him throw you off it.”

Kallus’ eyes narrowed further, but he did not begrudge the teen his animosity. Out of all the Rebels, he had expected the most resistance from Bridger as the young man had proved on multiple occasions to be the most petty, impulsive member of the Ghost crew, and with a Mandalorian and Lasat as his competition, that was quite a feat.

“We shall see.” Kallus nodded to them both and as he turned to leave, out of the corner of his eye, he caught Wren elbowed her young companion in the side, whispering something furiously into his ear.

Kallus waited until he was out of earshot of the two children before he chuckled.

His mirth at the teens’ squabbling was short lived, however, as R2-T1K began chittering, the noise sounding eerily similar to an organic’s chortle. He cast a disapproving look in the mechanoid’s direction and the sounds ceased.

“Droid, where is the lift to the roof?” He continued to walk as he talked, unwilling to stand still in the still busy hangar bay, lest some unwitting Rebel decide to approach him.

The R2 unit whistled, spun once, and then wheeled off in a different direction. Kallus cursed under his breath as he hastily followed after the machine. _Apparently_ he had hurt its _feelings._ Which was quite impossible as, for one, all he did was _look_ at the bloody thing. And for two, droids did not _have_ feelings. They possessed a pre-programmed A.I. that had the behavioral patterns that had been programmed into it. That was all.

Angry as it acted, the machine still leads him to the roof’s ladder. It was tall, much taller than the one Kallus had scaled on the stolen Rebel craft, but he did not dread the climb.

 “Wait here for me,” he ordered without looking at the droid, reaching out to grip the ladder’s closest rung.

Taking a deep, determined breath, he began his ascension, climbing upwards at a steady pace that did not even cause the Imperial to sweat. 

He quickly reached the top and poked his head over the roof’s edge. Hazel eyes scanned its surface and the former Agent had the troubling thought that he had been duped. There was no sign of the Lasat’s bulk on the roof, for it would have been obvious were he atop it. Orrelios stood out even on an industrial planet’s busiest street; his silhouette should have been perfectly outlined against the slowly sinking sun’s orange glow. Yet Kallus saw neither hide nor hair of the alien.

Internally cursing Ezra Bridger and the malevolence of teenagers, the Imperial lifted a foot to begin his descent, only for it to pause midair. Loud hacking, rough and full of fluid stopped him, and brown eyes guided toward the source of the coughs, narrowing as they laid upon the creature he had sought after, which was laying its side and wheezing.

A deep frown settled over his face. Kallus had not thought to search the roof’s base, had not expected the Rebel Captain to be laying on its hard surface hacking up a lung and appearing altogether unwell. Should he leave and return with aid? Orrelios looked to be in need of assistance, but Kallus was no medic and certainly no expert on alien ailments. There was very little he could do in way of helping the Lasat. But then… If he were to be the one to offer help first, perhaps Garazeb would be grateful? If the former Agent left and returned with others, there was no way for him to claim that the offer of help had only come because of the _Imperial’s_ insistence.

As Kallus deliberated with himself, the coughs slowly dwindled down until only silence and the low hum of Rebel activity below could be heard.

His head had turned down while in thought and his brows had furrowed, but a gruff snort pulled Kallus from his internal consultation. Then, an even gruffer voice, sounding rough and worn, called to him.

“This ain’t no free show—Get up’re go away. Can hear ya thinking from all the way over here and it’s _killin’_ my buzz.”

Kallus’ brows shot up. “Buzz?” He parroted.

The Lasat then reached for a bottle to his left, wide and brown, and shook it. There were no markings on its glassy surface and one could only make out its slowly sloshing liquid contents by straining the eyes. Kallus’ own honey-brown orbs widened upon realizing what it was within the container, for even without markings, the _context_ in which it had been presented made it obvious.

“You’ve been drinking,” he said, voice full of disdain. And to think Kallus had been _worried_ for the lush.

“Yeah, got a problem that, Imp?” The alien spoke with not one iota of shame to be heard, but the challenge in his voice? That, Kallus heard clearly, like the striking of a bell before a boxing match. The former Agent’s eyes narrowed in answer and he pulled himself up off the ladder and over the roof’s edge. Very well, if Orrelios wanted to strike at him with words, so be it. Kallus would handle anything the Lasat threw at him and by the end of the match, _he_ would be the one standing victorious. His winnings?

The Rebel no longer shooting him murderous glares, as he was currently.

“Not at all, you are off duty, after all.” He spoke casually, covering his earlier disgust with the Rebel’s hedonistic behavior well. Letting on that he disagreed with any of the other’s life choices from here on out would do nothing to regain him the man’s favor. If he wanted back into Garazeb’s good graces, he would perform the act of acceptance, and tedious as the act might be, no other had inspired him to put on a good show quite like Garazeb Orrelios.

“You telling me Imperials do somethin’ improper as drinking when they’re off the clock?” The man said it disbelievingly, pulling the bottle closer to his side as Kallus closed the distance between them.

Kallus weighed the decision to remain standing or to seat himself beside the larger man; ultimately, he decided to lower himself to the ground, crossing his legs as he did so.

“Some of them yes,” he answered carefully.

“But not you,” Orrelios clarified.

“… I was never inclined to partake, no.”

“Che, figures—can torture a guy but _drinkin?_ Now _that’s_ crossin’ a line.”

Even with the Rebel being the one splayed out on the roof’s surface, bottle in hand, and drunkenly slurring his words, it was Kallus who suddenly felt a fool. He turned sharply from those hazy, hateful eyes and glowered at the ground. It would seem even while inebriated, the Lasat had good aim. Kallus would have to do better; the next hit would not land and if it did, he could not afford to let Orrelios see its impact.

“I never considered… it was not so much a line as a job that needed to be done. I did not drink because I do not enjoy alcohol’s effects; I did my job following similar logic.”

“You enjoy torturin’.” The Lasat said, voice laden with disgust. And it was then Kallus finally remembered, Lasats have claws.

The accusation tore at him, striking the former Agent somewhere deep. The alien’s strike was particularly injurious, because he was armed with the truth. Kallus _had_ enjoyed inflicting both psychological and physical pain upon any traitor unfortunate enough to be captured by him.

Kallus swallowed, his voice coming out in a guilty whisper.

“I’m not with the Empire anymore.”

The Lasat’s reply was not immediate and Kallus felt the stirrings of hope that it would be _enough_ , but Orrelios was not so merciful.

“Oh yeah? S’that what you tell people while you torture ‘em?”

His next blow did not land, not as intended, but the fact that the Rebel Captain had thrown it at all was enough.

“ _I do not torture_ … at least… not for some time.”

Orrelios cocked a large purple brow at him and Kallus felt compelled to continue.

“Not since I took the title of Fulcrum.”

Garazeb pushed himself up just enough to where he was leaning back on his elbows, face level with the Imperial’s.

“Oh yeah, an’ why’s that?”

“Because there was no need for it and… I understood it would not align with your ethics.”

Not the Rebellion’s, as Kallus knew full well the atrocities Saw Gurrera and his pet Lasat were willing to commit. But Orrelios was of a different breed than the mercenary, one Kallus was willing to adjust his behavior to appease.

“What, you quit torturin’ cause I don’t like it?”

The Lasat perplexed him and Kallus tilted his head in response, expression baffled.

“What other reason would I?”

His answer set the other off in a stringent of alien curses that Kallus could scarcely tell apart, though he did manage make out a single _karabast_. Then suddenly a bottle was being shoved in his face.

“Drink.”

Kallus reared his head away from the bottle. “I beg your pardon?”

“If you’re gonna be up here, yer gonna drink. So drink.”

He tried pushing the bottle from his face, but the alien’s arm did not budge. Kallus scowled.

“ _I am not an Im_ …” But he was. “… I joined your Rebellion. I’m officially a Rebel. Your insult no longer holds relevance.”

Orrelios smiled at him, nasty and full of pointed teeth.

“Oh, but you’re still an Imperial n’all the places it counts.”

Kallus breathed rapid, heavy breaths through his nose, anger simmering just beneath his calm veneer. The man had landed another blow. It was _infuriating._

“You’re angry at me for something I have no control over. What I am, was, is not something I can change.”

Orrelios smirked and waggled the bottle in front of the human’s face.

“Don’t think _control’s_ what you’re lackin’ here, _Imp._ ”

Enraged by the other’s unreasonableness, Kallus snatched the bottle from Garazeb’s hand. It would not occur to him until much later that it was because Orrelios had _allowed_ him to.

“If I drink this will you stop calling me that?”

“What, _Imp?_ ”

“Yes,” he seethed.

Kallus respected Orrelios. Was it too much to ask the sentiment be returned?

“Dunno, why don’t you take a drink and find out?”

He gawked at the man. “You are _impossible._ ”

“Alexsandr,” the Rebel called, eyes turning serious.

“What?” He inquired, his grip tightening over the bottle’s neck.

“Take a drink. Or get off the roof.”

There was far too much seriousness in that statement to be said by a drunk man.

Nigh on a decade has passed since Kallus last touched alcohol. The substance had been a constant during his teen years, before and even shortly after he had joined the Imperial Army. Not until he had found his place within the army had he understood the toxin for what it was: a crutch, one that had been violently kicked out from under him during his final two years in Academy by a peer.

Alexsandr never picked it back up. Not even after Onderon. His coping methods had taken a different, darker turn…

Still, if it was Garazeb who was asking him, offering the ex-Agent an olive branch in the shape of a liquor bottle, then what choice did Kallus have but to accept?  Besides, he had been able to drink an entire _bottle_ before feeling even the mildest of liquor’s multitude of effects on the human body during his teens.

Older as he was, a few sips would hardly be enough to impede his judgment.

“Very well,” he conceded.

Garazeb grunted and Kallus looked from the Lasat to the bottle he held. Its top was not very wide, not enough to suggest the drink came from the alien’s own culture. Everything the Lasats created for themselves tended to be larger than that of a human equivalent. So it was unlikely the beverage would poison him. 

The alcohol’s fumes rose from the bottle’s open mouth, filling his nostrils and causing the minuscule hairs in his nose to curl. His stomach rolled in disgust and Kallus grimaced just as Orrelios called him out on his hesitation.

“Gonna take a drink’re what? I don’t got all day.”

Kallus’ eyes narrowed. Yes, technically the Lasat did have all day—he had been given the entire day off by Captain Syndulla. But rather call the alien out on his blatant lie, Kallus took a deep breath, then took a drink.

The glass was warm against his lips and the liquid inside slid smoothly past them. That was where the smoothness stopped. The instant the liquid touched his tongue, he recoiled, gagging as he forced more of the foul tasting substance into his mouth. He did not swallow it, he could not. His tongue was pressed to the back of his throat, stopping the liquid from going down.

He wanted to spit it out, but again, he could not. Orrelios was watching him, judging him.

He removed the bottle from his lips the same moment he swallowed down the liquor, quickly slapping a hand over his mouth as he choked. It _burned_ , and a hot trail of liquid fire slithered down his esophagus and Kallus suddenly understood it had not been _sickness_ causing the Rebel to cough so harshly before.

The liquid reached his stomach, and even that became heated and Kallus hunched over to keep himself from retching. He removed the hand covering his mouth and sputtered, coughing horribly, eyes watering.

Gripping the bottle tightly, he turned to glare at the Lasat, only to freeze as hazel met yellow-green. The other’s eyes… they were far too serious to belong to a drunk man.

“Too much for ya?” The Rebel challenged.

“No,” he responded, throat raw.

Orrelios reached for the bottle and Kallus did not stop him, allowing it to be taken from his grasp. The furred man held the bottle close to his chest as he considered Kallus, ears flicking.

The human reached up and wiped away some of the alcohol and spit that had landed on his chin during his sputtering, unwilling to break away from the Lasat’s stare even as his eyes watered.

Their shared gaze lasted for all of another twenty seconds before the alien looked away, and Kallus felt a swell of triumph rise in his chest. While he had not delivered a blow against the Captain, he had successfully blocked anymore from the Rebel from coming. At least for the time being. He would use the temporary reprieve to come in close, slip past the other’s defenses.

He smirked, leaning forward as his eyes roved over the alien’s relaxed form. The Lasat tensed under his gaze and Kallus’ grin widened, the tips of his canines showing.

“Are you satisfied?” He asked, voice lilting in almost a tease.

Garazeb’s ears drew back at the Imperial’s tone and he leaned forward on one elbow toward, thick purple lips pulled back in a snarl.

“Not even close, _Imp_.”

Kallus’ smirk dropped and his brows shot forward in an angry scowl.

“You said if I drank you would no longer call me that.”

The Lasat snorted. “Ya took a _sip_ , last I checked that ain’t drinkin’.”

Kallus’ eyes narrowed. “You were hardly specific, how was I supposed to know what you qualify as the appropriate amount of _drinking?_ ”

He crossed his arms over his chest and braced for whatever mockery Orrelios was sure to throw at him. The man was being completely unreasonable. One sip of that foul liquid was already more than Kallus would ever ask of anyone in order to prove themselves.

‘S’a Rebel thing, wouldn’t expect ya to understand.”

Orrelios then lifted the bottle to his mouth and threw his head back as he drank, throat bobbing as he swallowed. When he was finished, he lowered his head back down and blew out a satisfied breath of air, smirking as the Imperial as he did so.

“Now that’s a drink. Think you can keep up, _Imp?_ ”

Kallus huffed through his nostrils. The Rebel was goading him, though for what purpose, he had no idea. His response to the alcohol would not change after repeated drinks, its flavor would not suddenly change the more he poured down his sore throat. What could Orrelios possibly hope to achieve by urging the former Agent to drink? Intoxicate him? But why, so he could point and mock Alexsandr once he became inebriated?

Possibly, and the more Kallus thought over the idea, the more plausible it seemed to him.

The bottle was once again held up to him, and Kallus hesitated before grabbing it and pulling it to his chest, eyes the brown bottle warily.

Garazeb Orrelios wanted to see the former Agent intoxicated, to see him acting like a _Rebel._

He sighed, grimacing as he came to a decision. Not that it had been a difficult one to make, Kallus already knew that he had been desperate for the Captain’s acceptance before ascending to the rooftop. He had simply not realized how desperate, willing to do almost anything Garazeb asked of him to keep the Lasat from looking at him as he was now, with derision and distrust.

“Very well, if that’s how it must be.” He said it while looking into the bottle’s opening, quiet enough to be speaking only to himself, but he knew the alien heard.

His stomach clenched, anticipatory, as he lifted the bottle to his lips.

The alcohol slid into his mouth and Kallus quickly pulled the bottle away, clenching his teeth. He swallowed the liquid down with a pained grimace. It burned just as much as it had the first time, but expecting the pain, he was able to better control his reaction to it. He still wanted to spit the foul substance back out, to wipe its taste from his tongue, but he refrained.  All too aware of the large yellow-green eyes watching him, he forced the drink down. His hand clenched painfully tight around the bottle’s neck, the bones in his fingers straining.

Kallus stared directly into the Lasat’s eyes as he finished his _drink_ and he held the bottle out to the other man, leaning forward from his place on the ground.

“Your turn,” he wheezed out.

Orrelios regarded the Imperial with a raised brow before giving him a slow smile.

“Yeah, s’pose it is.”

Kallus’ eyes narrowed at the sudden soft tone, but he did not question it. If two drinks of that disgusting brew were enough to appease the alien’s tempter, he would not be the first to complain. Perhaps now that the Captain appeared more at ease around him, he could try sliding in closer so that he could slip past the man’s defenses completely.

Slowly, with an intentional air of nonchalance, Kallus uncrossed his legs.

“What is this, anyway?”

Garazeb reached out and took the bottle, their hands touching for the shortest of seconds. Kallus’ breath hitched and he tried to focus on the feeling, but it was over too soon. He still did not know if the Lasat’s fur was as soft as he suspected.

“It’s Cortyg.” Orrelios said, as though it were obvious.

When the human showed no signs of recognition, the Rebel elaborated.

“Wookie brandy.”

Kallus’ jaw dropped.

“That’s not meant for human consumption!” He practically shouted, fear creeping into his mind as he wrapped and arm around his middle. He was going to need a stomach pump, maybe some anti-bacterial medication as well.

Orrelios merely chuckled in the face of his panic, waggling the bottle in front of the Imperial mockingly.

“Usually yeah, but this here’s not your normal Wookie brandy. It’s something special, watered down, they brew up t’sell to other races.” The Lasat leered. “Relax, Alex, I’m not trying to poison you.”

Kallus closed his eyes, breathing deeply as his panic receded.

“You always drink strange liquids you know nothing about when offered, or am I just special?”

The Lasat was still smirking when Kallus reopened his eyes. He looked directly into them, expression humorless.

“You’re special…” Garazeb’s grin slipped and Kallus tilted his head forward, a small smirk of his own forming. “… And it’s still your turn to drink.”

Orrelios opened his mouth, appearing as though he wanted to speak, but said nothing. Instead the Rebel lifted the bottle to his wide mouth and took a long drink, closing his eyes as he did so. Kallus’ smirk widened and he used the opportunity to scoot closer to the Lasat. He managed to move forward several centimeters before Garazeb finally removed the bottle from his lips, coughing as he did so.

A single finely trimmed brow rose. “You clearly do not like the brandy any more than I, so why drink it?”

The Lasat wiped his mouth, eyes narrowed as he held the drink back out for Kallus to take. Voice gruff as he asked— “Why do you?”

Reaching out, Kallus took the bottle without answering. And then without a word, threw his head back and took another drink, surprising himself by how easily the alcohol slid down his throat compared to the first two times, though it still warmed his stomach.

He once again held the bottle out for the Lasat to take, only coughing mildly.

“Your turn,” he hemmed.

“Not gonna answer, then?” Orrelios took the bottle.

“Are you?” He queried.

Garazeb looked from the human to the brandy.

“Maybe,” he murmured.

Kallus’ lips thinned and he scooted just a little bit closer to the other.

“Is it because of me?” Kallus prodded. If he could pinpoint the exact cause of the Lasat’s anger with him, he could take measures to correct his behavior, fix it so an incident like this never occurred again.

Before answering him, the Rebel took another drink of the brandy and Kallus watched as the other man’s hairy throat bobbed with every swallow.

When Garazeb pulled the bottle away, the fur on his lips was wet. Alex licked his own, swallowing. Silence permeated the air around them for several ling minutes, neither man willing to be the first to break.

It was Kallus who broke first, unwilling to allow childlike stubbornness to prevent him from accomplishing his goal.

“Garazeb, I can’t fix this if you don’t tell me what is wrong.”

Kallus could not change who he was, only how he was perceived. If only he knew how the Rebel Captain truly saw him.

“An’ just what _is_ this, Kallus?” The Lasat growled. “We didn’t try to kill each other _once_ — you think that makes us friends?”

“No.” Kallus’ answer came with no hesitation. He had never been so presumptuous. _Hopeful_ , yes, but… He leaned in closer to the larger man, words coming out a hushed whisper.

“But, I think we could be.”

He reached a hand out to take the bottle from Garazeb, their hands touched once more and Kallus lingered, feeling the Lasat’s short purple fur. It was soft. He forced back a smile.

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

Orrelios allowed his grip on the bottle to loosen and Kallus pulled it to himself, holding it close to his chest. He swayed slightly from side to side as he waited for the other’s response, suddenly finding it difficult to remain still.

Would… Did he need to take another drink before Garazeb would answer him? He eyed the bottle warily, he did not want to take so much as another _sip_ of the brandy, but if it would loosen the Lasat’s tongue…

“Everything.” Orrelios muttered. “Everything’s wrong: the Empire, Chopper Base, _you_.”

The Rebel rolled until he was on his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows with his head lifted as he looked at the Imperial through dilated pupils.

“We lost everything ‘cause of one man. Thought I’d gotten used to what that felt like…”

Kallus froze, ice gripping his heart at the accusation. The truth of it sent a chill down his spine and suddenly, even in the humid heat of Yavin IV, he felt cold. Perhaps one more drink actually was in order, if only to warm himself back up.

Quickly, Kallus did just that, not even coughing as he returned to holding the bottle close to his chest. The edges of the human’s vision blurred and he blinked rapidly, trying to clear it away.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, gaze focused solely on the alcohol in his grip. “I never meant…”

Kallus swallowed spit, tasting the brandy on his tongue.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, voice hoarse.

A furred hand entered his line of sight, and the bottle was roughly ripped away from him. Startled, he looked up to see Orrelios rubbing the back of his neck, scowling.

“Karabast…” The man took another quick drink from the bottle before turning his gaze to the Imperial. “I didn’t mean _you_.”

“But you said…”

“You’re a different problem.” Garazeb clarified. “An’ Chopper Base? That’s all the Empire, s’all _Thrawn._ ”

Kallus bit his lip. “But had I not tried to contact you—,” he was cut off.

“Thrawn still woulda found us and we’d ‘ave had even less of a warnin’ than we did.”

“Then why…” He trailed off, sucking in a breath through his nose, trying to organize his jumbled thoughts. They were so hazy and out of reach, thinking any deeper than what appeared first in his mind was proving to be inordinately difficult.

“… I should hate you,” Orrelios softly admitted. “Even putting Lasan behind me, you’re not a good man.”

Kallus nodded, agreeing with the alien’s logic completely.

“I’m not and you should.”

He slid closer.

“But you don’t hate me, do you?” It was a bold statement, but the liquor gave him courage and Kallus slid even closer to the larger man. The Lasat’s ears drooped and Kallus had his answer.

“I’m not a good man, Orrelios, but…” He reached for the bottle. “…I want to be.”

He could practically see the Captain’s defenses as they crumbled. He smiled, slow and easy, running the tips of his fingers up and down the bottle’s length. The glass felt so smooth…

Garazeb watched his movements as though mesmerized, and Kallus’ eyelids drooped. It was time to land an attack of his own.

“I could be, with you…” He lifted the bottle, eyes never leaving the Rebel. “… As my friend—you’re a good influence on me.”

He took a drink.

Orrelios watched him as he took a large swig of the horrid liquor, his eyes never straying even as Kallus lowered the bottle, placing it on the ground. With the other watching him so intently, the former Agent felt his confidence grow and he moved closer, close enough for to easily reach out and touch the Lasat’s head, if he so chose.

“I want you as a friend, Garazeb.”

The alien breathed heavily from his strange nostrils before finally sitting up properly, sliding to sit on his rear with one leg stretched out

“And you always get what you want, huh?”

“No,” he corrected. “During my time as an Agent, I never once caught you.” And he had wanted to, badly.

Orrelios reached out for the bottle, looking pained.

“Karabast, but ya have.”

He frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”

The Rebel shrugged and Kallus wanted to snatch the bottle back from his too large hand and demand an answer. But that would not be seen as very _friendly_ , so he refrained, his eyes narrowing.

“Does that mean you _will_ be my friend?” A better outcome than Kallus had anticipated, something he had certainly hoped for, but not something had been foolish enough to actually think plausible.

He moved in closer, coming between the other’s spread legs. He needed to see every minute detail of the alien’s face as he thought. He _needed_ to. He could not explain exactly why, but he was certain of its necessity.

The Lasat leaned forward, his breath coming out in hot puffs against Kallus’ face.

“I don’t make friends with _Imps_.”

Anger flared within him at the other’s use of the slur. The man had agreed to stop calling him that. His own breath came out in warm pants as he glared harshly at Orrelios, their faces far too close for the alien to properly receive the full force of it.

“Do _not_ call me _Imp._ ”

The heat in his words earned Kallus a toothy grin from the Lasat.

“What’d ya prefer, then? _Imperial trash?_ ”

Kallus seethed and impulsively reached for the liquor bottle, only for Garazeb to hold it high out of his reach. He swayed as he stretched for it, just barely managing to keep his unstable form from falling to the side.

“Why are you like this, now?” He questioned, angrily. “You should not have been so kind to me if you were just going to take it away!”

An ache in his chest formed, thinking how the Lasat had mirrored Kallus’ own thoughts of what he truly was.

_Imperial trash._

Cruel had never been a word the former Agent would have ever associated with the Rebel Captain, but that was the only way he could interpret Orrelios’ insult. Fury and hurt swirled within Kallus’ chest and he knew the alcohol had already begun taking effect. His mind was becoming hazed, unable the process but the rawest of emotions. Soon he found himself forgoing his plan of careful strikes and could only think of making the alien hurt as he did. It was only fair after all; it was Garazeb’s fault Kallus was in this situation to begin with.

The Lasat surged forward, baring his teeth in an angry snarl.

“Why. Are. You. Here.”

Kallus moved his head back, fearful of what would happen should those sharp teeth _snap._

“I told you,” he ground out. “Because it’s the right thing—,”

“Tell me the truth, Kallus! Not that slag you told the Commander.”

Orrelios’ breath was thick with the scent of alcohol and his own natural stench. The Rebel was likely more inebriated than he appeared, not that Kallus had any basis to tell a sober Lasat from an intoxicated one. Not that he was fairing much better.

Several seconds passed without an answer from the former Agent and Rebel sharply turned from him, but not before Kallus could see the look in the other man’s eyes. It hit him like a blow to the gut, that look, forcing the truth from his mouth as though he were vomiting it up.

“ _I’m here because you’re right_.”

He could salvage this. Even if it took laying strikes against himself. Anything to wipe that look of **hatred** off Garazeb’s face. _Anything._

“I’m a horrible person, an unrepentant liar, torturer, murder,” his words came out in a rushed slur, and still Orrelios did not look to him. Kallus continued on. “I don’t deserve a second chance, not from _you_.”

His hands shook and he clenched them, struggling to retain the emotional control he was known for.

“I don’t regret anything I’ve done to you Rebels, not really. I was doing my duty, it was never personal.” But then Bahryn had happened, and his life had not only been spared, it had been saved, by a _Lasat._

_“_ But I regret Lasan.” The Rebel’s right ear twitched, the first sign the furred man had been listening to the ex-Agent’s tirade. He surged on.

“I regret what I’ve done to you. I regret what I did to Rafeel, even though the scum _deserved_ it.”

Finally, Orrelios spoke to him, voice coming out low and heated.

“If he _deserved_ it, why do you regret it?”

“Because you hate me for it!” Kallus spat, livid. Orrelios was being purposefully obtuse. He had to know perfectly well the effect he had on the Imperial. He could not claim to be the sole reason for the former ISB Agent’s defection and not know what that implied.

Kallus cared for him. As a victim, as a friend. In retrospect, it should disturb him, how much he desired the alien’s acceptance. But he was not of a mind to analyze those strange thoughts, he did not know why he did, he only knew he **wanted.**

Friendship, acceptance, tolerance, anything the Lasat was willing to give him. Anything but his hatred, or worse, _apathy._

“… Why does what I think matter so damn much to you?” Orrelios sounded as lost as Kallus felt.

“I don’t know,” he replied tiredly.

It earned him a grunt from Garazeb as the Lasat rolled to face him.

“Karabast… you’re hopeless.”

_You’re so quick to give up hope._

“Yes, I suppose I am.” Kallus chuckled, finding his own pathetic state more humorous than he probably should have. It was well worth it, though, as the other’s look of hatred had been replaced by one of resignation. The Rebel Captain had come to a decision of sorts.

“I don’t get you, Kallus.” Orrelios confessed.

“That makes two of us,” Alexsandr replied. Yet another thing they had in common.

An uneasy silence filled the air.

“… It’s not just you an’ me here, ya know. You’re part of somethin’ bigger than just two people.” Garazeb told him, breaking the silence.

But you’re the only one that _matters_ was the impudent reply Kallus wanted to give, but even in his inebriated state he knew such a claim would not go over well.

“I know that,” he snapped instead.

“Yeah?” The Lasat questioned. “Coulda fooled me.”

He rolled his eyes. “As if that’s such a difficult thing to do.”

Kallus had already done so, multiple times, even after he had fled the Empire. Still, he bit his tongue against speaking further, already regretting the barb. He needed to keep the nastier part of his personality in check around the Captain. But Garazeb had a way of getting underneath the human’s skin and pulling reactions from him in a way Kallus had never before experienced.

It made controlling himself around the Lasat decidedly difficult, the liquor pumping through his veins no doubt doing nothing to help matters.

“I don’t believe ya, you know. Not that you’re really here for the Rebellion and not some sorta sudden guilt you’re feeling after realizing your _precious_ Empire isn’t everything you believed it to be.”

Kallus’ expression hardened, both at the sliver of truth in the statement and its phrasing. “It’s no longer _my_ Empire—what do I have to do to convince you of this?”

Becoming Fulcrum apparently was no longer enough to convince the Captain of his commitment.

The Lasat regarded him for a few short moments, eyes roving from his seated form, to the trees, to the slowly setting sun behind them. An ear flicked forward and the man’s gaze lowered, looking over the short ledge on the roof’s edge.

“You’re part of a Rebellion, so let them know it.” The Lasat nudged his head to the side, directing Kallus’ gaze to the edge of the roof. “Make it loud.”

He scoffed. “What are you suggesting? I shout my defection for the entire hangar to hear?”

How absurd.

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m suggestin’.”

Kallus shook his head, eyes going wide in disbelief.

“You cannot be serious.”

Orrelios grinned impishly at him, melancholy forgotten in the wake of Alexsandr’s obvious discomfort.

“As a massacre.”

Kallus’ nostrils flared.

“That was low.”

The Lasat’s grin stretched.

“You gonna do it?”

He huffed, crossing his arms over his chest in frustration.

“I betrayed the Empire. I’m here with you, with your Rebellion. Is that not enough?”

The other man’s arrogant expression never wavered.

“Nope.”

Kallus threw his hands up, exasperated.

“You are impossible.”

“That’s not an answer, _Imp_.”

He wanted to punch that smug expression right off of Orrelios’ face. Instead he leaned forward, getting dangerously close to the other’s sharp-toothed mouth.

“You will _never_ call me Imp again,” he growled.

“Those your _terms?_ ” Garazeb purred mockingly.

“Yes,” Kallus seethed before pushing the alien away from him. Smirking when in his inebriated state, the Lasat didn’t have the bearings to catch himself and fell flat on his back with an _oof._

He sniffed, served the arrogant drunkard right.

Kallus staggered to his own feet, the world spinning around him. Odd, he had not thought Yavin IV’s orbital rotation to be quite so fast. He hunched forward, placing one hand on a knee and the other on his forehead in an attempt to steady himself and regain his balance. It was partially successful. He stood straight and bile rose up in his throat, both from nerves and the sudden movement. Honestly, Kallus should not be as nervous as he was. He had stood in the presence of Lord Vader without so much as a nervous twitch.

The opinions of some Rebel peons should not cause such anxiety within him. It was the brandy, Kallus reasoned, making him susceptible to such weak feelings. Brows furrowing in concentration, he recalled the havoc alcohol reeked on his emotions being one of the many, many reasons he had given up the substance during his youth.

“Alright,” he breathed. “Let’s do this.”

He walked forward, swaying as he moved, and only stopped once he had reached the small ledge that separated the hangar’s roof from a deadly fall to its cement floor. His eyes strained downward, only able to make out the tiny forms of Rebel workers milling about. From this height they appeared to be nothing more than ants. Insects.

Were they really worth his humiliation? Unconvinced, he still did as Orrelios had asked.

“I… am a Rebel.” He said, but his halfheartedly spoken words were lost to the wind.

Kallus turned his head back to where the Lasat had fallen, wanting to see if that would be enough to sate the alien’s need to see the ex-Agent make a fool of himself. His brows shot upward when he did not see the Rebel on the ground where Kallus had left him. Where had he…

A large, purple striped arm suddenly wrapped around Kallus’ shoulders and he jolted, body turning toward the source of warmth that was suddenly at his side.

“What are you…?” He trailed off, losing his voice as the other leveled him with a mischievous look.

“You call that a shout? C’mon, I _know_ you can be louder.”

“I did as you asked, it’s not _my_ fault their hearing is so poor.” He muttered, refusing to look at the Lasat. He did not need to, he could practically _hear_ the man’s grin.

“Yeah? Maybe you just weren’t saying it _loud_ enough?”

The Lasat shook him.

“C’mon, give it one more try.”

Kallus grit his teeth, hating himself for being unable to tell the blasted alien _no._

“I am a Rebel!” He yelled.

“That’s more like it,” Orrelios encouraged. “Again.”

“I am a Rebel!” He shouted, louder, cheeks staining red.

The bodies below had stopped moving and even from their great height, Kallus could tell they were looking upward. His heart began to hammer in his chest, but before he could step away from the roof’s edge, Garazeb shouted down—

“Ya hear that? He’s a Rebel!”

Orrelios turned his head to the side, breathing into Kallus’ ear.

“Again.”

Kallus swallowed, his heart still hammering in his chest, though it was no longer due to the looks of the Rebel workers.

“I… _am a_ _Rebel!_ ” His throat scratched raw from the force of his bellow.

The sun lowered slowly, dim pink and yellow hues covering the sky. Wildlife chirped and cawed in the forest that surrounded the Rebel base, and not one worker moved. Kallus tried to take a step back, but the strong arm around his shoulders stopped him. Just as he was about to ask Garazeb to release him, he heard it. A distinctly non-animal like howl arising from the workers below. It was quickly followed by more, and Orrelios’ grip around him tightened.

More howls where quick to follow, breaking and starting back up again as they called up to him. High pitched whistles filled the air, and Garazeb let out a loud bark of his own.

“He’s a Rebel!”

Swept up in the moment, heart heady with the elation of acceptance, Kallus shouted back.

“I’m a Rebel!”

The Rebels down below shared in his jubilation, clapping, hooting and hollering, _howling_ their approval of the ex-Agent’s declaration. A chant started among them, Kallus could not pinpoint where it started. It was a low, deep chant that steadily grew in strength as more joined it.

“ _Rebels, Rebels, Rebels, Rebels, Rebels_ …”

Their chant continued as the sun sunk beneath the trees, automatic lights flicking to life as darkness descended upon the base. The Rebel workers were already proving to be far more welcoming than their Imperial counterparts had been; they were acting like something Kallus had not realized he wanted until watching Garazeb be greeted on Bahryn by his fellow crew members.

_Comrades._

Kallus laughed, he actually _laughed._ A smile spreading across his face and hazel eyes bright with joy, crinkled at the corners by how wide it was. A giddiness he had never felt before bubbled up inside him. It was pleasant, warm, and he wanted to share it with the man who had made him feel this way. He turned his head from the lowering sun and chanting workers, to the Rebel standing beside him, Garazeb’s purple fur rubbing against the back of his neck as he moved.

Orrelios turned to meet him, drunkenly happy expression similar to Alexsandr’s. As soon as their eyes met, however, the alien’s smile fell, owlish eyes going wide. The corners of Kallus’ smile tugged downward at the unexpected response, but his jubilant expression did not fade completely, not like Orrelios’ had. His throat was raw from shouting, so he did not ask the other what was wrong. Rather he waited, silently, for the Lasat to tell him of his own volition.

Garazeb’s answer came in the form of a short, half-whispered curse.

 “… _Karabast._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this took a thousand years, but we're finally getting to the part that everyone is here for. The shipping. Sorta. Pre-ship slash. I was worried about the dialogue in this scene and the whole "I'M A REBEL" bit. But I know for a fact military people hoot and hollar like that. 
> 
> Next chapter is one the way and I'm writing a decently sized one-shot based off a piece of art that was uploaded recently. 
> 
> As always, criticism or any kind of feedback is welcome.


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